


Begin Again

by ead13



Series: The Genius of Shornhelm [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Betrayal, College of Winterhold Questline, Exploration of how magic works in Elder Scrolls lore, Flashbacks, Gen, High Rock nobility, OC needs to learn social skills..., calling out the college on their bs educational practices, genius mage loses his abilities, kidnapping and exile, making friends is hard, missing apprentices is an actual quest here, non-dovahkiin, rich guy has to slum it trope, slight canon divergence on quests
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2020-11-10 19:17:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 43,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20856902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ead13/pseuds/ead13
Summary: Yves Montclair thought he had it all: titles, money, incredible talent with magic... Turns out he couldn't add 'loving younger brother' or 'faithful wife' to that list. In a particularly brutal political maneuver, he finds himself delivered to Skyrim's warfront, knowing full well he's not meant to survive, much less return to High Rock to reclaim his birthright. If that wasn't bad enough, the poison he'd been given to subdue him did permanent damage to his magicka. The one-time genius of Shornhelm, master of each school of magic, is left with a single spell and barely enough power to cast it.It would be so easy to give in to despair, but Yves feels obligated to survive after being rescued at Helgen. Maybe if he can survive the week, he stands a chance of taking back what is his? Please, sweet Julianos, at least let him get his power back! At the end of the day, that power was all he ever had.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Alternately, the story created as I not only play as a mage for the first time in the many years I've owned Skyrim, but also try to justify how someone with barely any abilities ends up Arch-Mage of the college of Winterhold in a few short months!

“You must realize, dear brother, that this is nothing personal.” The well-dressed young man with his crimson wool cloak, thick linen trousers, and polished leather boots seemed to speak to no one as he looked down at a large crate. He appeared very much out of place there on the freight docks of Northpoint, if there had been anyone around at that time of night to notice. As it was, only the few ship hands loading their vessel knew of his presence, and they paid him no mind. He had, after all, paid them off to keep quiet.

But there was in fact an audience. From inside the crate, his elder brother squirmed as best he could in the tight space and groaned in frustration, unable to slip out of the bonds that bit into his wrists and unable to voice his anger through the wad of cloth shoved unceremoniously into his mouth and secured by a leather cord. His clothes, once as fine as his sibling’s, were now ripped and covered in dust and dirt. The trip from Shornhelm to Northpoint had been anything but luxurious, though he had been unconscious for most of it.

“You see, there was nothing you could have done to prevent this from happening. Of course, you certainly couldn’t help being the firstborn, heir to House Montclair. Being granted leadership of the family and possession of all that we own was pure circumstance, nothing more. Likewise, and as a result, it wasn’t your choice to marry Kat; Mother and Father decided she would be a better match for the heir and not the heir’s younger brother. We both know there was no defying them.” At the name of his wife, given as a pet term of endearment from his own brother’s lips, the helpless man actually fell still, a look of despair crossing his pointed features. He hadn’t exactly been in love with the girl, it was true, but it somehow still stung that she would betray him in such a way.

This reaction made Laurent Montclair smile sadistically. “I’ll even concede that you couldn’t help being a terrible bore with next to no imagination. The magic ran thick in your blood, not charisma. One can’t change who they are, nor can they hide their true nature; Kat could never have loved you even if you had pretended to be remotely charming. Rest assured she will be far happier with me, a man with vision and passion. The entire family will be better off with me as the head. You should be grateful I’m taking charge, taking this burden away from you. I know you only ever filled your role because you are the sort who blindly does what they are told. Won’t it be fun, Yves, to be thrown into the wide world where…”

“Are ye done with yer damn speech yet?” one of the sailors called down grumpily from the ship’s deck.

Laurent gave an insulted harrumph, moving to grab the lid to the crate. “Fine, fine, just give me one more moment.”

“Whatever, jes’ hurry it along. We gotta lift anchor before the next patrol shows up.”

The younger brother rolled his eyes before returning his attention to his sibling. Last chance. Yves did his best to plead through his gag, shamelessly crying out and shaking his head while attempting to sit up. Laurent only raised his leg to push him back down with his foot. The weight crushed against his chest and left an unsightly boot-print on the once-white silk shirt. “As I said, none of this is your fault, so I won’t have you killed. But you can’t stay here, Yves, you can’t get in my way. They will take you out to Dawnstar with contraband weapons for those brutish Nords’ little guerilla war, and from there you may do as you please so long as you don’t return to High Rock. This is farewell, Yves. May the Divines have mercy on you.” The last sight Laurent had of his brother was of tears starting to trickle down the pronounced cheekbones of his dirt-smeared face, the last sound a muffled wail of despair. Then, the lid of the crate clicked into place.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

“No, please!”

Yves bolted upright from his spot on the floor drenched in a cold sweat. The ground was so hard, even with the bedroll his hosts had provided. This was not his fine feather mattress in his Shornhelm estate, and it was too much like the ship hold’s floor, or the bottom of that crate. And it was dark, so dark, just like when he had been trapped in that box... His first instinct was to cast a magelight so he could get his bearings, but when the basic spell he’d mastered as a six-year-old boy failed to manifest in his hand, it only added to his panic. Damn it, damn it all, he’d lost that spell, as he had countless others. Whether Laurent had planned it that way or not, whatever poison he’d been given to stall his magic the night of his kidnapping had done permanent damage. His only means of defense were reduced to nearly nothing. Fear from his nightmare mixed with despair, and Yves choked on a sob as his entire body trembled.

“Ngh, Yves? You all right?” From somewhere nearby in the dark rumbled another man’s voice, laced with sleep. That was right, he wasn’t alone here. Hadvar was also on a bedroll in his aunt and uncle’s basement, having offered the Breton shelter after their escape from Helgen. At that recollection, Yves did his best to stifle his tears and cleared his throat.

“Yes, sorry. Bad dream, that’s all.” Good thing it was so dark, or else Hadvar would be able to see his face. Bad enough his pinched voice gave so much away. Now, like always, he had to demonstrate the stoic calm that was his best defense.

“’Bout the dragon?”

“Yes.” It was just so much easier to lie than to have to explain what had led up to him being on a cart of Stormcloak prisoners. Hadvar would not doubt this lie as the truth; what had happened in Helgen was the stuff of nightmares, even if not his own this night. In fact, he felt a bit guilty that his own preoccupations were outweighing the disastrous events of that morning. Only he would dwell on family drama while a beast out of legend swooped in and demolished an entire village.

Across the floor, he heard Hadvar sigh. “I knew going into the army I’d see some very messed up things, but that level of destruction and terror was not something I ever expected. I can’t imagine how it hit you. I mean, you said you were what, a scholar?”

That had been what he told the Nord soldier. No reason to tell him he ran the family enterprises as of two weeks ago, and if he confessed to studying magic, Hadvar would of course demand to know why his was so flimsy. He hadn’t even given his last name, fearing someone would come for him and finish the job despite what Laurent had said. He wanted to trust the man, seeing as they had survived quite a lot together that day alone, but trusting people hadn’t done him much good lately. “Yes. And not one on mythical beasts.”

“No kidding.” Hadvar paused. “Do you want to talk about it? That usually helps people, especially when they’ve just survived a nasty battle. I’ve seen it all the time in my regiment.”

“No, I’ll be fine. I’m sorry to have disturbed you, Hadvar.”

“Don’t be, my friend. You’ll find no judgement from me. I hope you can get some sleep then.” Yves heard shuffling as his companion shifted positions, and then after a few minutes, deep snores. 

All Yves could do was lie there in the dark. No matter how physically tired he was, he couldn’t sleep. What was he going to do now? Where was he going to go? These were probably questions he wasn’t meant to be asking by this point. His brother may have phrased it like he believed he would survive the journey to Skyrim, but Yves was convinced this was just something he told himself to ease his conscience, to keep his hands clean of family blood, perhaps even so he could say he hadn’t murdered his brother without actually lying. Laurent had to intend for this experience to kill him indirectly, or else he wouldn’t have taken such drastic measures to see him delivered to a war front. Yves wasn’t even certain his brother trusted the integrity of the crew to deliver him to where he was supposed to go; he could have just as easily ended up a slave somewhere, and Laurent wasn’t going to lose sleep over it. Oh, the look on Laurent’s face when he returned to the Montclair estate would tell all.

Because returning was the logical plan, wasn’t it? He would head to Whiterun, deliver the message as he promised, then acquire some coin for passage to Solitude, and from there Northpoint. It wasn’t as if he would be able to make a life here with no coin to his name, no family ties, and no skills beyond spellcasting. Even if he could, why would he want to stay in this backwards province? What choice did he have but to return to Shornhelm and attempt to reclaim what was rightfully his? Surely his magic would start to recover by then, and back to normal, he’d be able to challenge Laurent to a duel for his honor, no doubt slandered by his younger brother to justify his disappearance. Laurent could never hold a candle to him when it came to spellcasting.

The plan seemed obvious, but the phantom voice in his head echoed Laurent’s words the night they’d parted ways: he lacked imagination, only ever did as he was told. Going back to Shornhelm to continue where he left off would be him living up to his brother’s estimations. It irked him to think about, but he kept telling himself that he didn’t have any other options. A noble Breton didn’t get many options beyond the path laid out for them. Sure, he could defy it as Laurent had done, but look at the levels he had stooped to in doing so!

Yves rolled over, trying to no avail to find a comfortable position on the cellar floor, and finally resigned himself to discomfort as he repeated the mantra over and over, lulling himself back to sleep: I am safe, I am safe, I am safe… If only he could believe it.


	2. Conjure Familiar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yves makes his way to Whiterun only to come to terms with his current limitations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of each chapter references a spell Yves is able to control at that point of the story. Here in the first chapter, he's down to one, and that is the first spell he ever learned. I thought it would be fun to give a little personal history tidbit out front as well.

The very first spell Yves had learned demonstrated his precociousness, because while it stemmed from a childish desire inherent in a five-year-old boy, it was in fact a summoning from Oblivion itself, learned from the pictures and rudimentary incantations of a spellbook rather than a tutor.

Little Yves had been lonely, his baby brother providing no company for an inquisitive child. Meanwhile, his parents were busy with family business and social events, and the servants were for serving, not for playing. He recalled the cats and dogs living on the streets as he and his family traveled via carriage around Shornhelm, and also the way his mother had quashed any hopes of him having one for a pet after he’d inquired. Animals were too messy, and besides, the servants would trip on them. With no one to occupy him, he’d wandered into the estate’s library, resigned to practice his budding reading skills by trying to decipher the titles of some of his father’s books. His abilities in reading at such a young age had already earned him praise and attention from his parents, so improving would likely earn him more of what he craved.

The spellbooks along the back wall caught his attention in particular. Watching his father cast was one of his favorite things, and he had no doubt in his mind that he would be a mage just like all the other great Montclairs of the family. As he ran his fingers along the spines of the tomes, he was eager to find out what kinds of things he might learn some day once his father deemed him ready for training. The child got down on his knees and craned his head sideways to read the spines, enthusiasm quickly morphing to frustration with the very strange words he saw. Even sounding them out, they didn’t make sense. Then, he got to a book on summoning familiars. In a moment of triumph, he only sounded out the ‘famili’ part. Whatever spell it was, maybe that could keep him from being lonely! Would it make his family spend time with him? Would it give him more family?

He excitedly pulled the book from the shelf and opened it to page one, but there were so many words, and printed so small! Yves had pouted before flipping a few pages. Finally, he got to a set of pictures. Yves knew his numbers to a point, and he pieced together that if he imitated the motions shown in the right order, he would be able to cast the spell. It certainly APPEARED like something his father had done. He practiced each pose individually, then began stringing them together faster and faster until it was all one (relatively) fluid motion. Still nothing.

Yves frowned and grabbed the book, squinting to find a hint as to why he’d failed. This time, amidst all the fine print, he saw some letters larger than the others, and in a different style of writing. Yes, his father usually murmured something while he cast, so these must be the magic words! Even though they didn’t sound like much when he tried to pronounce them, he felt confident he was correct. The words his father used rarely made any sense; that was why they were magic words and not regular words. The hard part became pairing the incantation with the gestures. He repeated both over and over until he knew the nonsensical words by heart and the motions by muscle-memory. Still nothing.   
At that point, Yves became upset. He had done everything his father did, but not one thing had changed. He was still alone. All his anger boiled over as he repeated it one more time, wishing with all his heart that some kind of friend would appear.

The glowing purple wolf that suddenly materialized in a hum of magicka nearly made him wet himself. As it was, he screamed and rushed to hide behind a big sturdy armchair. To his dismay, the wolf followed, though at a leisurely pace. In fact, as he observed with his entire body trembling, he realized that other than glowing and having appeared out of thin air, this looked and acted very much like the dogs he had seen on the streets. He finally worked up enough courage to reach out and pet it when it disappeared with a soft bark beneath his hand. Had it been him that made it happen?

Yves tried to repeat the spell, and nothing happened. The cogs in his brain spun furiously. What had been different the time he had succeeded? It wasn’t the motions, and it wasn’t the words; he was certain those had been exactly the same as before. It was… His tiny hand came to rest on his heart. He’d wanted it so badly. The boy squeezed his eyes shut and imagined his wolf companion as he tried again, wishing with everything in him that it would work. This time his wolf companion returned, just as calm as before. The mystery was solved! Now there was no keeping a grin from his face as he pondered what he should call his new friend.

At dinner that night, Yves had asked his father how it would be possible to keep his wolf friend around for longer, seeing as by the time he played a few rounds of fetch, it disappeared. At first, his father had just laughed, assuming his son had made some kind of imaginary friend to occupy himself, but Yves shook his head with a very serious expression. He had cast a spell from his father’s book and made the wolf appear. His father’s mirth disappeared, but Yves was not stupid; he could still read the doubt on his face as he concluded that it was very unlikely his son could have done such a thing. That had the boy asking for permission to get up from the table and demonstrate, his brow furrowed in annoyance at the disbelief he was getting. His mother granted the permission, hoping to humor him and get him to calm down again so they could resume dinner in peace.

When he summoned the wolf, his father spewed wine all over and his mother actually fainted for a brief moment.

From that day on, Yves wasn’t lonely any more, though it wasn’t due to the company of Canis (he’d opted to use the first word of the spell for its name for lack of better ideas). Rather, his father, seeing that his son held the potential for genius, sought out a tutor immediately. On one hand, Yves was disappointed that his demonstration did not bring him any closer to his father, who remained busy managing family affairs and only saw his son in passing. On the other hand, Yves found he enjoyed his studies very much. Thanks to Canis, his path through life was set.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Yves Montclair jumped when a harsh voice barked out “Imperial business only. Move along!” He’d been so deep in his memories that he hadn’t seen the group of soldiers and the prisoner they were leading come up the other side of the road as he veered towards the middle.

“Oh, sorry gentlemen, my mistake,” he quickly apologized, giving them wide berth. They said nothing in response as they marched past, but the glare he got from the chained prisoner was enough to make him wilt. He’d love to summon Canis right now just to make himself feel protected, but that would probably anger the already on-edge soldiers. Besides, he’d just called upon him to defend him from a stray wolf, and his magicka hadn’t fully recovered yet. Damn, a month ago, he could have called a storm atronach and not broken a sweat, but now he couldn’t maintain his most basic familiar for more than a minute at a time.

He wasn’t just fatigued in his magicka stores either. Yves had started out from Riverwood at first light with the goal of making it to Whiterun to deliver Alvor’s message to the Jarl. It was the least he could do after the man had given him food and shelter when he needed it most, and besides, the hold capital promised some semblance of civilization. He could certainly get a carriage from there. The problem was, Yves was not accustomed to walking such long distances, and the boots he’d borrowed from Helgen Keep did not fit quite right. All in all, his feet were killing him. He was fairly certain he had open blisters in several spots. He simply couldn’t take it any longer, so he sat down on a boulder alongside the road and reached for a flask of water. In the pause, in the moment he didn’t have something to distract him, his head filled with everything that was currently wrong.

Yves was disgusted to be wearing a dead mage’s robes, ill-fitting and cheaply enchanted besides being taken directly from the corpse. He was not happy that breakfast had been a piece of stale bread with some kind of earthy-tasting creamy cheese that these Nords seemed fond of, resulting in his stomach already clamoring for more. He was terribly upset to be walking so far, and even more that he’d been reduced to the same level of magic use he’d had as a five-year-old. Honestly, if he’d lost his ability to summon Canis along with everything else, he might have just let that wolf along the road devour him and put him out of his misery. That familiar was about the only thing giving him hope right now after he’d lost literally everything else in his life.

Unable to endure the despair his loneliness brought, he cast the Summon Familiar spell. The only way to build up his magicka stores again was to continue to tap into them constantly. His tutor had compared it to the way people built muscles by lifting weights, not that he’d ever actually tried that. Besides, studying Canis gave him something to focus on besides his numerous woes. It was silly, really, the idea of naming this familiar at all. As a boy, he’d assumed he was summoning the same wolf every single time, leading to the naming and attachment. Once he’d studied the craft for a while, he understood that he was likely summoning a different spirit every single time. That had been a disappointment, and even now as a grown man, part of him still clung to the idea that he’d bonded with that particular spirit. He still called him by name in his head if not aloud. Maybe that was the reason why his summoning spell was the only one Yves could currently perform in his weakened state.

After offering a few pats to the wolf’s head, it returned to Oblivion, leaving him alone again. Ah well, his feet didn’t hurt any less, but at least he’d caught his breath. Whiterun was actually visible, located atop a lone hill on the plains. Not much further, and hopefully once he arrived, he could study up on a restoration spell to heal the blisters.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

“Halt! Gate’s closed, what with news of dragons about!” Yves found the Nord-style helmets the gate guards wore unnerving, as very little of their faces and none of their expressions could be seen.

Still, he remained ever the diplomat, just as he’d been trained. “Please, sirs, I come bearing news from Helgen of the dragon attack.” He could feel their eyes scrutinizing him even if he couldn’t see them, and as he looked down at himself, he realized they probably were skeptical due to his mage robes. Damn, given all the other pressing matters fighting for his attention, he’d forgotten that Skyrim was not exactly friendly towards magic-users, especially after the Great Collapse of 4E 122. Hadvar’s hesitant comment after his choosing of the mage stone blessing should have reminded him yesterday, but no doubt he’d been too far in his head to notice. As it stood, he’d need something else to prove himself. “I was sent by Alvor of Riverwood.”

That did the trick. The guards visibly relaxed. “Very well then, head up to the Jarl’s palace and make your report, but we’ll be keeping an eye on you…” The pair separated, leaving the door accessible, but never actually opening it for him. Yves huffed in annoyance and struggled to open the massive door himself. Backwater peasants.

Much to his dismay, this ‘hold capital’ was not much more advanced than its initial impression. The ‘streets’ were more like narrow, hastily-cobbled paths that meandered up the hill, and he couldn’t imagine how any horse-drawn carts could make it to the marketplace. They also looked like they were one good rainstorm from washing away and leaving nothing but mud. Instead of carefully tended flowerbeds, wildflowers from the plains seemed to grow rampant wherever they could find free space, more weed than actual decoration. Perhaps at one time the city had been in a better state, judging by the impressive layout of the walls, but centuries and many battles had taken their toll, leaving the ramparts more ruin than useful. So much for civilization.

The people around him were in the middle of daily life, arguing over weapons for the legion, having marital spats, and begging for septims as he hurried up towards the Jarl’s palace. For the first time in his life, there was nothing between them and him, leaving him feeling rather uncomfortable. If he had any money on him, he’d worry about being pickpocketed. As it was, he did his best to tune out the cacophony as he went, ignoring his sore feet in favor of escaping the rabble of the marketplace.

The palace was at least more impressive than the rest of the city, not that it was a hard comparison. A fine wooden building with soaring towers and carvings of dragons, it even had an entryway complete with towering archways and pools of water. The spoils of power were apparently universal. He entered without hesitation, feeling more at home here than anywhere else in Whiterun, and was greeted by the sight of a spacious, vaulted banquet hall built around a blazing fire pit. Further back, a blonde giant slouched in what was clearly the throne, being chattered at by a smaller olive-skinned man and the most ferocious Dunmer woman he’d ever seen (not that he’d seen many, to be honest). It was a strange combination, but he pressed forward with all the certainty his noble lineage had given him. Almost immediately, blood-red eyes narrowed at him. Smooth and swift, the Dunmer strode over to him with a hand on her dagger. “State your business.”

Some kind of body-guard? Yves had never heard of any noble hiring a gray-skin for such an important position, but he wasn’t about to bring that up with her looking ready to stab him in the eye. “I have news from Helgen about the dragon attack. I was asked to bring it to the Jarl from one of the townspeople in Riverwood.”

“The dragon, you say?” Her fierce eyes flickered with interest. “You were there?”

“Yes, I survived the attack.”

“Very well then, come.”

Yves didn’t care for being ordered around by a Dunmer, but again, the air of danger she possessed kept him from bringing that up. Instead, he followed meekly behind her until he was standing before the Jarl of Whiterun. Upon closer inspection, he realized just how solidly built the man was, most of it muscle. The slouching had hidden much of his true power at a distance, making him just as much of an imposing figure as his bodyguard. These Nord Jarls no doubt tasted battle first hand, just as their reputations suggested in High Rock. Now he was nervous; Yves could use his silver tongue with the best of them back home, but Skyrim nobility might just snap him in half rather than mince words.

“My Lord, this man says he’s come from Helgen, having escaped the dragon attack.”

“Is that so?” The Jarl folded his hands and rested them against his chin as he leaned forward. “Tell me what you saw.”

It had all happened so quickly, and it had been so far out of the ordinary, it was hard to try and describe, especially when put on the spot. His eloquence faltered. “Ulfric Stormcloak was about to be executed when a winged terror, black as night, swooped down from the sky and let loose a terrible gout of fire. Its roar alone was enough to make a man dizzy,” he explained carefully. “Most of the soldiers and townsfolk were not lucky enough to escape. After I escaped with one of the Imperial soldiers, we saw it flying north.”

“I should have known Ulfric would be mixed up in this,” the Jarl muttered, surprising Yves. Of all the details he’d given, that was what he’d focused on? “Of course, right now we need to send reinforcements to Riverwood.”

“But the Jarl of Falkreath will view that as a provocation! He’ll think you are preparing to join Ulfric’s side and attack him!” The richly-dressed man, no doubt an advisor of some kind, seemed distraught at his leader’s proposition.

His protests were rebuffed. “I will not stand idly by while a dragon burns my hold and slaughters my people! Irileth!”

“Yes, my Jarl?” Yves could see all the Dunmer’s ferocity melt into something…trusting…as she looked up to her ruler.

“Send a detachment to Riverwood at once!”

“Of course, my Jarl. They will be stationed by sundown.” With that, she spun around and slinked down the hall and to the entrance.

“As for you…” The Jarl focused his attention back to Yves. “I thank you for delivering the message. I will send Proventus to fetch you a suitable reward from my personal armory.” The ruler didn’t even have to cast him a meaningful look; his advisor was already scurrying away to get the requested item. Man must be feeling pretty meek after his council was summarily rejected in front of a total stranger. “In the meantime, you should speak with Farengar, our court wizard. He is looking for help with a project, one that is even more crucial now than ever.”

“Of course, my Jarl,” Yves agreed, offering a low bow. If the task was academic as he hoped, he would be a huge asset. If it wasn’t, a conversation with a fellow mage would be a nice change of pace, and perhaps the Jarl had perceived that given the robes he was wearing. When nothing else was added save for a gesture to the east wing of the palace, Yves dismissed himself to locate this wizard.

He found a man in indigo robes leaned over an unfurled scroll on his desk, a ball of magelight bobbing over his head to illuminate his work. “Excuse me, sir…”

The wizard snapped to attention, hurriedly rolling up the scroll as if there were some kind of top-secret information contained in its runes. “I’m a very busy man, I don’t have time for banal conversation,” he responded testily.

Yves was not pleased with this tone, but he did his best to remain cordial. “The Jarl asked me to check with you about a particular project you have. He said I might be able to help.”

The man before him finally raised his head enough where his eyes were visible under his shroud. They looked him over before he shook his head. “I handle the brains in these endeavors; what I need is brawn. You do not seem qualified in that department.”

The Breton could put two and two together. “You were hoping for someone to fetch something, I suppose?”

“Correct.”

Yves shook his head. “Then you presume correctly. I do not make it a habit to wander into danger.”

“Well, that settles that, then. Off with you,” Farengar dismissed with a wave.

“Wait. Do you sell spell tomes?”

“I do.” Farengar gave another appraising look. “If you could afford them.”

Now his blood was beginning to boil. He was the genius of Shornhelm for Mara’s sake! This idiot had no idea who he was talking to! Why, he had an entire library of spell tomes back at his estate, including spells so innovative that this pretender would never have heard of them! “What makes you think I couldn’t afford them?”

Farengar snorted. “Walking around in those filthy hand-me-down robes? Then again, maybe you could scrape enough together for the level of spell you’d have to start with…”

He’d love nothing better than to send a firebolt flying at this insolent Nord, but just as quickly, he realized that despite his background, the man wasn’t exactly wrong… What he needed, and needed quickly, were the fundamentals. His anger was rapidly turning to shame. The court wizard’s next words only cut deeper. “But tell you what. I need these Frost Salts delivered to Arcadia down at her alchemy shop in the marketplace.” The Nord pulled out a small pouch from one of the pockets of his robes. “I won’t pay, but she should. How’s that for a start?”

Yves wanted to take the Frost Salts and throw them at his face for the insult, but there was no denying his need for money. This was humiliating, but still better than having to work in the fields or some other labor-intensive task. “Fine,” he growled through gritted teeth, “but…”

“Sir, I’ve got your reward right here!” A third voice interrupted him, and when he turned to look, he nearly groaned in dismay. The steward was grappling a steel chest plate that looked far heavier than he would like to carry. It certainly had no practical use for him. Hopefully he could sell it for a decent price and get some NEW mage robes so people would stop judging him.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Arcadia, it turned out, was far nicer than Farengar. She thanked him and paid him, though it was in potions. He must have looked mildly dismayed, because she quickly added that she’d also offer some of the ingredients in her shop and a bit of instruction so he could experiment with alchemy. It wasn’t the worst idea; mixing potions was a far better alternative for generating revenue than running more of these ridiculous deliveries, provided he didn’t have to touch any animal parts to do it. Yves swallowed his pride and picked out a few of the less offensive ingredients to begin experimenting with. Some kind of healing potion was a must with his restoration spells disabled…

In the end, he found a few combinations, most notably a mixture to fortify conjuration that Arcadia informed him would sell for nearly fifty septims each. What he needed to make this profitable were more ingredients. Perhaps tomorrow he’d gather some of the plants growing on the plains. The sun was already beginning to set, so it was no time to be leaving the safety of the city’s walls. Before heading to the inn and getting a room though, he wanted to investigate a rumor he’d heard in the marketplace.

He found the city’s priest of Arkay pacing the vestibule of his burial chamber as he’d expected. “Priest, I heard you were in need of some assistance?”

“Thank Arkay, you’ve heard correctly!” The gray-bearded man looked relieved to even have an offer of help. “I’ve lost my Amulet of Arkay, the source of my power, inside the catacombs. I’d go look for it, but the dead have become…restless. Can you put them back to rest and bring it back to me?”

“Of course.” Yves didn’t exactly have combat experience, but the skeletons found in catacombs were notoriously easy to defeat from what he’d heard. One good blast and they were back to being a pile of bones. Canis could handle it easily. It would be just the thing to heal his wounded pride after such a rough day.

“Wonderful! I’ll wait out here and make sure nothing foul escapes.”

Taking a deep breath, Yves made his way to the heavy metal door and eased it open just enough to slip inside. Stealth was key. He paused once he was inside, and the sound of creaking made him shudder. Books didn’t prepare him for that part. As quietly as possible, he summoned Canis, fully intent on letting the familiar do the fighting while he remained hidden.

Three different skeletons came at Canis from all directions, weapons in hand. The wolf was able to take down two of them with a snarl before disappearing. That left one skeleton peering with eerie blue orbs at Yves Montclair. It charged.

The man had been frozen in fear until it moved for him, and then all the adrenaline he had kicked in. Yves bolted from his hiding place, feeling the sting of a blade as it ripped through the sleeve of his robes. Canis! He had to resummon Canis! But there was no flicker of magic left; he’d used it all. Quick, a restore magicka potion then! The one thing working in his favor was that the catacombs were a circle. The skeleton chasing him was not bright enough to cut him off as he fumbled through his bag for a blue bottle. Once he successfully uncorked it and swallowed most of it (several stray rivulets leaked from his mouth as he ran), he could feel the difference. He turned and summoned Canis once more, with just enough time that the wolf got between him and his foe. The battle was over not long after.

Even after Canis returned to Oblivion, Yves just stood there panting heavily as he stared at the scattered limbs. His pants finally morphed into frustrated sobs that wracked his trembling body. Hot tears spilled from his eyes as he did his best to blot them up with his torn sleeves. Even with no one looking, he felt the need to hide his face. These were the tears he’d wanted to shed ever since he’d realized how weak and vulnerable he’d become, but never had the opportunity to do so due to the frequent presence of others, forcing him to maintain his controlled façade. Now it all came out, with the realization that even lackluster Laurent would kill him without trying if he attempted a duel, the terror that came with not knowing whether he’d ever recover. Who would hear him in here, after all? The dead kept their secrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing like realizing pathetic Skyrim skeletons nearly killed you to make you understand how weak you really are. Am I saying this out of experience? Of course not...


	3. Flames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yves needs to rekindle a spell so he can properly defend himself. However, that path is taking a darker turn than it did the first time...

Yves Montclair may have been a prodigy, but his tutor, with his parents’ blessing, had the sense not to teach a five-year-old how to send flames pouring from his hands. Maturity and intellect were after all two very different things. A child might try to burn a spider to a crisp and set the whole mansion on fire, unaware of the gravity of that power.

They waited until he was at least seven to get him started in the school of destruction. He was very mature for his age.

Flames was the first spell of this type he was taught. Unlike sparks or frost, flames were useful if one ever needed to start a fire or keep warm in general. Politicians of High Rock had been using flames to destroy damning documents in their enemies’ possession for millennia, though he wouldn’t hear about that application until he was much older. Overall, it was a crucial spell for any self-proclaimed mage, and without it he would grow up to be the laughingstock of Shornhelm’s elite.

Somehow, summoning a wolf sprit from Oblivion proved much easier. Little Yves struggled, relatively speaking, to master his first destruction spell, and his tutor, Master Comtois, quickly identified the reason: the boy wasn’t sure why he was forced to learn something, well, destructive. He could repeat his tutor’s reasons back without flaw, but they still rang hollow to him. Considering flames, like any other form of magic, could only be summoned with a resolute will, this was impeding his charge’s progress. He had to try and explain another way or they would get nowhere. Then, he’d be out of a job.

“Yves,” the balding mage finally declared, placing his hands on his hips, “Do you know why your other spells have worked so easily?”

Yves shook his head, staring at the stone pavers of the patio where they trained. He was failing, and he was very embarrassed by that fact. It was the first time in his brief life that he couldn’t exceed expectations. The feeling was detestable.

“You wanted them to work. Badly. You conjured that familiar because you wanted him to keep you company. You conjured the magelight because you wanted to see in the dark. You do not want the flames.”

“Flames hurt people!” Yves protested meekly.

“Only if you wish them to,” his master reasoned, but the boy remained unconvinced. 

“I might on accident.”

“You are a very responsible and careful child. If you weren’t, your parents would not have me trying to teach you this spell.”

“Mother and father wanted me to learn this?”

“Yes.”

“But…”

This was getting nowhere; it was time to try something more drastic. It seemed a shame to bring up a dark topic to such a young child, but on the other hand, if he was to be wielding something destructive, perhaps he should also be entrusted with the weight of reality. At the very least, he prayed to Magnus that it would give his pupil some motivation to summon the flames, thereby pleasing his patrons. “Listen, Yves, your father has enemies, and there are men that would do anything to hurt him. Being a helpless child would not keep you safe from evil people like that. What would you do if someone tried to take you?”

Yves’s brown eyes grew wide in horror. “But I’m safe here!”

Master Comtois at least had the good sense not to traumatize the boy by revealing the possibility of trained assassins. He kept it to “You will not stay locked up here all the time. But think: they would never expect you to be able to defend yourself with destruction magic. You would be able to save yourself if you were ever in trouble.”

Tears began to fill his young student’s eyes. Oh no. He’d pushed too far, once again mistaking intellect and maturity. This was why he preferred working with adolescents! If the Montclair matriarch found out her son had been frightened, he’d be in hot water. Now, the mage scrambled to regain control. “Listen to me, Yves. Knives and swords can be taken away. Soldiers can be disarmed. You, on the other hand, would always have a weapon everywhere you go. You would always be able to protect yourself.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Yves noticed movement. His tutor was in the middle of an important lecture, but he couldn’t help but be curious about the distraction. A quick glance was enough to inform him that his younger brother was out toddling around the grounds with one of the nursemaids. A thought dawned on him. “And Laurent.”

The teacher blinked in surprise at this seemingly random remark, but was quick to jump on this opportunity. “Well, yes, that is true. Laurent will be completely helpless, and who knows how long it will take for his magic to manifest. I doubt it will be as quickly as yours did.”

Yves Montclair closed his eyes, and though it was scary, he reached deep inside and thought of some dark, scary shadow reaching to steal away his little brother. He’d burn the shadows away, even if it also burned away his innocence. That was the role a big brother was meant to play. The words were said, the motions repeated, and Master Comtois was shocked to see flames pour forth effortlessly. The seal had been broken.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Master Comtois was a liar, Yves thought bitterly as he trudged towards the inn. Despite having a small sack of coins in his pocket, payment from that priest of Arkay for his help, his mood was still foul after what had transpired in the catacombs. The old mage had promised Yves would never be helpless if he learned those spells, that no one could ever take them from him. Well, here he was, defenseless, no thanks to the destruction magic he’d trained in during his youth. And wasn’t fate cruel, that the entire cause of this predicament was the one person he’d wanted to protect with that magic? In the end, he would be purposely turning those destruction spells against his younger brother rather than some shadow of an enemy on the outside. The enemy had been next to him all along.

Still, the experience in the catacombs had him conceding that rushing back to duel Laurent was not a feasible plan even if he did have enough money for a carriage to Solitude. He needed to get his spells back before doing anything else, and there was no doubt in his mind that it had to start with Flames. Such a thing would be both offensive and defensive, non-taxing to his crippled magicka reserve if he missed, and dependable in close quarters. Meanwhile, people on fire had a tendency of STAYING on fire for a few seconds, buying him time if he needed to escape. Yves had found a spell tome for it lying near the dead mage whose robes he was currently wearing, as if he actually needed to review the words and motions. He could do both of those things in his sleep. What he was missing now was the connection to Aetherius.

He put those thoughts on hold as he arrived at the inn. Getting a hot meal and a place to sleep for the night came first. In the morning, he could worry about how exactly he was going to reawaken the flames.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

He’d been so disgusted by the thought of picking crops to earn money like some kind of peasant, yet here he was plucking up tundra cotton for alchemy on the plains outside of Whiterun. He needed to craft potions to earn money for those new robes, and alchemy was more dignified and required more skill than simple harvesting, even if he couldn't just BUY the ingredients. At least this way, no one was bossing him around and he could work at a comfortable pace.

His only other consolation was that this was a productive use of time as he waited for his magicka to regenerate between casting attempts. Despite being certain, he’d checked the spell tome again before attempting the Flames spell. Nothing was happening. After a while, he’d give up and summon Canis just to keep himself in shape. It was small progress, but he counted how many heartbeats the familiar remained in this realm, and that number grew slightly from when he began. That should have made him happy, but instead he was upset by his inability to regain such a basic destruction spell, after each failure a little bit more until he was ready to explode.

Yves was so worked up over his ineptitude that he didn’t hear the bandit approach until the Bosmer fairly hissed in his ear. “Hand over your valuables or I’ll gut you like a fish!”  
The Breton froze, immediately holding up his hands as he slowly turned. His eyes darted along the road, but the guards that normally patrolled there were of course absent now. There was a small dagger at his waist that he’d picked up from Helgen Keep, but he’d never be able to get at it without his assailant stabbing him first with his own pair of daggers. Not that Yves even knew how to handle a dagger, to be honest... “Valuables? What valuables? I’m broke. Have you looked at me?” He glanced down at his robes, now both dirty and torn after the scuffle in the catacombs.

“Nice try, but I don’t think I believe you,” the Bosmer snarled, looking irritated. “You’ve got one more chance to cooperate.”

“No, you don’t get it. I used to have money. I used to have tons of it. I lived in a huge estate, with servants and seamstresses and maids and cooks.” The absurdity of anyone wanting to rob him in his current condition was quickly morphing from disbelief to anger. “I used to eat five-course dinners and drink wine aged for over a decade! You think I have money now? I have nothing. NOTHING! All I had for breakfast this morning was an apple!”

He noticed a flicker of amusement in the bandit, but no signs of withdrawing. “Well, when I’m picking clean your corpse, I suppose I’ll find out for myself. Sounds like you are ready to die anyhow.”

“You have no idea.” His voice simmered with rage. As a matter of fact, he was flying fast and loose with this whole exchange instead of being careful because death didn’t even sound so bad at this point.

“Then maybe I should keep you alive, just maim you and leave you to bleed along the side of the road. Then you can go and beg in the marketplace for the rest of your days. Sound good, rich boy?”

That idea pushed him past the tipping point. As far as he’d sunk, he was aware it wasn’t the absolute bottom yet. What this robber was suggesting would be. It was entirely unacceptable for Yves Montclair. He’d fight it with all he had.

“Ignus quema!”

He wove the signs so fast that his attacker couldn’t react. Master Comtois had been right about one thing: the element of surprise. This time, however, the flames sprung not from a place of determination and noble desires to protect, but of base rage as they consumed the now-screaming highwayman. It was as if all his frustrations were manifesting as they erupted. Yves did not let up until his magicka wore out. His enemy was more than sufficiently killed by that point.

The joy he felt at seeing his Flame spell regained was tempered by two regrets.

The first was the realization that he had only obtained it from being ruthless and angry. That wasn’t the sort of man he’d wanted to be back when he was seven. It certainly wasn’t acceptable behavior for a noble of House Montclair.

The second was that he’d burned the man so effectively that there was nothing left to loot from his charred remains. Served him right for losing control.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

In the end, it bothered him more than he thought it would. The man had been a thief, had threatened to kill him. That wasn’t the problem; the problem had everything to do with losing the poised demeanor he prided himself on maintaining at all times. He worried that giving in to those less-than-acceptable emotions would be the only avenue left to him in the quest to regain what he’d lost. After all, it was emotions that provided the necessary link to Aethereus, which allowed a caster to cast for the first time. Upon reflection, it had been his child-like sense of wonder and fascination that helped spark his growth in his youth, but that was all gone now. His strict upbringing had extinguished it long ago. Surely there was another way besides giving in to anger again…

But worrying wasn’t going to help him now. What he needed was a job, specifically a job that required his new-found gifts. He was not interested in running another great sword across the city as he had done that morning, stumbling into such meager employment after pawning off his steel armor from the Jarl to the blacksmith. If he weren’t so desperate for proper robes, he would have refused such a demeaning task. Yves wracked his brain for ideas, and as his eyes scanned the marketplace, they came to rest on a Redguard man as he paced back and forth. He had something on his mind, and Yves knew exactly what it was; he’d overheard the argument he’d had with his wife the day before. Pick up a stolen sword? If he carried enough potions to maintain his magicka, it shouldn’t be a problem. Besides, he’d already killed once. What was a few more if they were bad men? As a mage, it wasn’t as if he got actual blood on his hands… It still wasn’t optimal, but it was better than being at the beck and call of others.

The only problem was working up the nerve to approach him. Yves had always hated this part. As of now, the only person in all of Whiterun he was comfortable engaging in conversation was Arcadia! He certainly didn’t make it a habit to get involved in other people’s business. The persistent growling of his stomach reminded him that desperate times called for desperate measures though. “Excuse me, sir? I couldn’t help but overhear you needed assistance retrieving a family heirloom?” he attempted, tapping the preoccupied man on the shoulder.

Much to his relief, this audacious gesture earned him an excited smile. “My father’s sword! He fed his entire family with the gold he earned using that thing.”

“Do you know where I could find it?”

“I’ve tracked it to a group of bandits nearby, over at Redoran’s Retreat. It’s a small cave, but very defensible.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Yves spoke with more confidence than he felt. Sure, summoning Canis didn’t drain him quite as much after his practice, but was that, paired with a spell he had just regained that afternoon, going to be enough? Hopefully his patron bought the idea more than he did.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

By the time Yves had prepared a few batches of restore magicka and fortify conjuration potions from his ingredients, and had gotten directions from Arcadia to Redoran’s Retreat, it was too late to head out. Instead, he got a good night’s sleep, praying to Arkay and Magnus for health and magicka in equal measure.

He left with the sun the next morning, unable to fall back asleep once he’d woken. The wolves he met on the road were dispatched far more easily than they had on his journey to Whiterun. That boded well. It was still a long trek though, and his endurance wasn’t any better even if his magicka reserves had improved. He didn’t make it to the cave until nearly noon, stopping to rest a fair distance away so he was prepared.

Yves had always had a knack for stealth. Perhaps it was because he was short, or perhaps it was his lack of noisy accessories, which he had always found to be a nuisance despite being a symbol of status. If he were being honest though, it was usually because no one ever paid attention to him unless they wanted something from him. As Laurent had so kindly pointed out, he was a dull man. So many times, he would be in the room and yet feel invisible as he observed life go on around him. Finally this was going to pay off.  
Canis was summoned near an open cavern, with the guard dog and handler unaware of the source. By the time they found him, they were so weakened that a few seconds of flame put them out of their misery. As for the second guard that came running when he heard the commotion, Yves’s magicka had already recovered enough to resummon Canis, and he worked alongside the wolf to finish his foe.

That couldn’t be all. Yves didn’t dare look for loot until the entire cave was cleared, slinking through a narrow passageway until a second cavern opened before him. There. The source of the humming he’d heard echoing in the tunnels was a ridiculously bulked-up Nord, too wrapped up in his little tune to notice the skirmish earlier. Yves took a deep breath, then gathered the necessary potions. One fortify health. One fortify magicka. One fortify conjuration. Sweet Arkay, he was getting nauseous from drinking all these potions…

Steeling his nerves with a deep breath, Canis was called, and the battle began. It involved more running on his part than he would have liked, especially since those borrowed boots weren’t fitting any better than they were yesterday. Canis would be eliminated by a swing of the hefty battle-axe while Yves took the opportunity to light the bandit on fire. He’d run, regenerate magicka, then repeat the process. Thank the Divines this bruiser's endurance was no better than his own! In the end, his small but relentless efforts were enough.

Satisfied at last that every enemy had been dispatched, Yves finally allowed himself to look around the dimly lit chamber for loot. That special sword ought to be there, though he had no idea what it would look like. He was fairly certain the one-handed blade he pulled from their chest of confiscated goods was the one, seeing as it had some strange lettering even he didn’t recognize. He knew most of the written languages of Tamriel. Perhaps it went back as far as the Redguard’s Yokudan ancestors? He also found an amethyst and a few more septims. Sadly, most of what the bandits hoarded was too heavy for him to bring back. He’d have to take those few things and focus on hauling the sword…

As he was about to close the lid, a single scrap of paper lying on the bottom caught his eye. He set the sword down so he could pull it out and unfold it, squinting in the dim light. Ugh, if only he had his magelight right about now… Instead, he had to move so he was standing near one of the torches. To his surprise, the parchment contained not writing, but illustrations. A windmill, a dotted line and an ‘x’. ‘X’ marks the spot. Treasure map? The area did look familiar, like the farms near Whiterun with that mountainous ridge behind. He shouldn’t get his hopes up, but he’d look into it after he finished his mission.

Back to Whiterun then. He paused, looking down at the dead body between him and the exit. It was hard to push aside the…what feeling was this, exactly? Regret? Shame? Definitely some element of disbelief that he had been the one to burn this man beyond recognition. Yves Montclair had been trained to fight in duels with the intention of incapacitating his foe. Killing someone outright was barbaric. It was not proper conduct for a noble. Even Laurent hadn’t stooped that low to get rid of him, though his intentions were admittedly base.

No. There was no need for shame. He did this to survive. They’d forced his hand, forced it to spout flame.


	4. Transmute Ore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First the sin of wrath, now the sin of greed. There must be a way to restore the dignity he's rapidly losing.

Yves was sixteen and looking for a new spell to work on during those dull evening hours before dinner was served. Being such a quick study, he’d mastered everything thrown at him by his tutor, as well as several other spells he’d found in his father’s library. In fact, all the tomes within reach on the shelves had been checked off one by one, whether covered by Master Comtois or practiced on his own time. Good thing they had just finished working on that telekinesis spell then.

Yves focused on the red book at the end of the top shelf and carefully drew it out. Admittedly, his control was still shaky, and before he could bring it to his hand it clattered to the floor, the reality of gravity winning over the alteration spell. Perhaps he should be strengthening that instead of learning something new… Despite the wisdom in that sentiment, Yves couldn’t help himself. He wanted to learn everything. Besides, the title of the book sent his imagination spinning as soon as he looked down to read it: Transmutation. It was possible to change the very composition of something? Incredible! No doubt this was the kind of spell that only true masters could attempt, because he’d never heard of such a thing before.

He quickly snatched up the book and moved to the large armchair by the fireplace to begin reading. The fine print contained within that had daunted him as a small child was no longer an issue; his patience and keen intellect had both been honed over his years of study to the point where even this dry discourse flowed without any excruciating effort. Of course, the material was utterly fascinating. The primary focus of the first chapter was changing ores from one type to another: iron to silver to gold. As the idea of practicing this new spell washed over him, he realized that he couldn’t think of a single place in the house where he could find ore to practice with. He’d have to put this material on hold for the moment until he could make the request of his father.

When, seated with the family at the dinner table later that evening, Yves petitioned his father for a few chunks of iron ore, he was rewarded with a strange look. “Why in the world would you have need of that?” the family patriarch questioned, reaching for his goblet of wine.

“There’s a spell I’m working on.”

“With Master Comtois?”

“No, on my own. I found it in one of your books on the top shelf.”

Now his father looked bewildered. There were no ladders in the library for the express purpose of keeping people unable to reach the most secretive and valuable volumes. Only he himself and any invited mage guests would have access, via telekinesis. “How in Mundus did you get at that?”

Now Yves was feeling nervous. It had never occurred to him that there might be spells he wasn’t meant to learn. It had never been explicitly stated, in his defense. “I just finished learning the telekinesis spell, and I used it to help me get at some new books…”

His father set down his goblet and rubbed his temples. “Of course you did. I forget how capable you are. I didn’t learn that one until I was at least 21…”

“Did I do something wrong, father?” the young man pressed, worry evident in his lean face. “It didn’t SEEM like a dangerous spell, compared to the destruction school.”

“Listen, son, I’m assuming you found the Transmutation volume?”

“Yes.”

“There is a reason I don’t keep that with the other spells. In fact, anything on that top shelf is for strictly academic purposes rather than practical application.”

“What does it do, father?” Laurent piped up. When the pair turned to look at the younger boy, they saw the annoyance in his eyes. He could rarely keep up with intellectual discussions, but at the same time hated feeling left out of anything important.

“Never mind, Laurent. Yves is going to put the book back and leave it there.”

The rest of dinner concluded in silence, leaving the teenager to meditate on why transmutation was not open to him. Had he not proven responsible? Was it particularly dangerous if he were to make a mistake?

Thankfully his father pulled him aside once everyone else was dismissed. “I did not want to get into it with Laurent around; he would not understand the way I know you will. The fact is, there are some things you should not do just because you can. In the realm of magic, there are many such examples. Tell me, Yves, what would happen if everyone could go around turning iron ore to gold ore?”

He frowned, brow scrunched in thought. “They would all turn the iron to gold at every chance, because gold is worth more. Then, there might not be enough iron to build things with. But the prices would flip, because gold would be worth less due to abundance, and iron would be worth more due to scarcity as well as practicality. The entire economy would be flipped on its head.”

“That’s my clever boy,” his father nodded. “There are far-reaching effects to a simple casting. Even more, who would stand to lose the most if this were to come to pass?”

This answer wasn’t so obvious to him. “Umm…”

“The ones with gold, of course. Our family. By making more gold, you would only lower the value of the gold we have, the gold that makes us rich. Can you see why I don’t want you to mess with the Transmutation spell?”

Of course. It made perfect sense. “Yes, father. But could I…at least turn it to silver? Or maybe take gold ore and turn it to iron once, just for practice?”

“Yves…” Oh no, his father’s voice had taken the warning tone!

He recoiled. “S-sorry, father. I will put the book back and leave your top shelf alone.”

This earned a hand on his head. Despite being nearly fully grown, Yves was still shorter than his father. He especially felt it in moments like this. “Good.”

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Laurent had found out anyways. He was a sneak even back then, having made a beeline for the library as soon as he was dismissed in order to find the book in question. He may not have been a genius, but he could tell that iron was to be turned into gold. When Yves had gone to put the book back, he’d found his younger brother waving it around excitedly, insisting he copy down the spell before putting it back so he could try it. They’d never need to ask for allowances again! When Yves soberly refused to disobey their father, he was called ‘boring’ and ‘goody-two-shoes’ as his sibling stomped his feet in a huff. Good thing he was able to telekinesis the book away from him before he could wreak mischief. That had been the end of that, though Laurent never let him forget how lame he was.

At least, that was what Yves had thought. Somehow, he was holding another copy of the same tome in his hands in the middle of some cave in the wilds of Skyrim. What the bandits thought they were doing with such a thing was beyond him, because apart from a few frost spells, the mages of the group seemed grossly incompetent for such an advanced spell. Perhaps it was loot? Something so rare could sell for a decent amount of coin, though he had no intention of doing so despite his need of it. With the Transmute Ore spell, he could make up the coin in other ways…

A wave of guilt overcame him, and he quickly dropped the book back down on the table where he found it. He knew better. Recklessly turning iron to gold may help in the short term, but would be irresponsible. His father had taught him better. He should be happy with the bit of treasure he found from the Redoran’s Retreat map, even though the Redguard’s reward for returning the sword had turned out to be little more than useless weapons training that he had turned down. It was enough to purchase his new robes from Farengar, leaving him feeling closer to a proper mage despite the fact that he could only afford novice level ones. Far better than the robes of a dead man.

Besides, he’d already done enough harm today, judging by the dead bodies littering the floor. Funny how by his third bounty, this was no longer so shocking. It wasn’t that the killing bothered him any less than it had the first time, but he was perhaps getting more adept at pushing those feelings of disgust down in favor of practicality. Bounties meant gold, and gold meant spell tomes to study from, tangible triggers that may potentially spark recall through the familiar words and images on the pages rather than serving as actual teaching implements. More spells meant being closer to returning home and defeating Laurent, being able to put this whole nightmare behind him and resuming his old life of comfort.

But by that logic, literally making his own gold would also get him out of this nightmare faster, and with fewer deaths.

With a moan of dismay, Yves reached for the book and stashed it in his satchel. He didn’t have to learn it right away, or even at all, but if there was an emergency, it would be good to have. Besides, he’d always wanted to experiment with this spell…

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

“Priestess, they tell me you train in restoration.” Yves bowed to the older woman politely. She was presiding over two of her acolytes, who were both working on healing sick and injured individuals, the golden glow of their spells enveloping their battered bodies like a warm embrace. Even from where he was standing, he could feel the calmness of this school of magic, and he remembered just how much he missed it. At the moment, he was surviving on potions, but he didn’t want to remain that way. A basic healing spell was crucial in his current, precarious situation.

“You are correct, child of Kynareth,” she responded, her tone rich with experience. “Though I only do so in exchange for a donation to the temple. It helps us maintain the supplies we need for our healing work as well as upkeep. In this time of war, securing resources has been harder than ever.”

Yves blinked. Of course he shouldn’t have expected free training, not even from a religious leader. “If I may, what is deemed an appropriate donation?”

“Two hundred septims.”

It took all his resolve not to flinch at that number. That was worth two of his three bounties, and little remained of the third after spending it on food and lodging the last few days. “I understand, mother. I will return once I have that amount.”

She must have noticed his dismay despite his best efforts. “If it is an emergency, my child, I can help you now, and you can donate whenever you are able.”

No. That was pity. Yves Montclair did not endure pity. “It’s no emergency, mother. I just have to take care of a few business items and I will return.” He bowed again before leaving the temple, unwilling to look back. It seemed that he would be returning to the Halted Stream camp in order to wrangle a few more mammoth tusks.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

He groaned as he attempted to pick up the set of three tusks he had lashed together with some leather strips lying on the bandits’ workbench. Attempting to carry the oblong items was going to be just as bad as the weight itself. Just imagining dragging them all the way back to Whiterun across the vast plain like some flea-bitten Khajiit trader made him cringe. He wasn’t made for this! Then again, he wasn’t made for killing, yet he’d done enough of that lately, and those tusks should at least bring in some coin beyond what he’d need to pay for food and lodging for this wasted day. What a slow process this would be, but what other choice did he have? He could make a few trips hauling the loot from this camp back to town, or…

Ore.

His eyes fell on a chunk of iron ore sitting on the workbench, the dying embers of their forge causing deep orange glimmers across the shiny portions of its surface. It would be so much easier to just learn that Transmutation spell and maximize the value of those small hunks of metal. He could fit many of them in his satchel and still make more from one trip than he would otherwise. The longer he thought about it, the more he felt able to justify his actions to his father back in High Rock; surely if he knew what his son was up against he’d pardon this violation of his orders! If he was being honest, though, he’d admit his biggest motivation was an aversion to acting as a beast of burden, paired with a sinful curiosity for forbidden knowledge. Reasons ceased to matter as he pulled the spell tome from his satchel and flipped open to the first page.

He practiced the words. He practiced the motions. He took the ore in hand and put the two together, an image of all the wealth waiting for him back at home burned into his mind’s eye, his heart filled with a desire for a pouch heavy with coin. When he closed his eyes, he imagined it was the weight in his hands. No more worries about paying for shelter and food and spells, no more having to sell his magic like a common mercenary.

The ore turned a golden color far more easily than he'd expected. Arkay have mercy on his soul.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

“I have gold ore to sell,” Yves declared to the blacksmith, holding open his satchel to the Imperial woman running the forge. The mine at Halted Stream had been rich in ore veins, not that Yves had actually dug any up. The bandits had already done their fair share, resulting in several pieces lying around, just ready for transmuting. He had at least four decent-sized chunks ready for market.

Not even the soot could hide her surprise. “Huh. I suppose some bandits had them stashed away. My father says you’ve been helping out with bounties lately.” 

“In a manner of speaking,” he replied stiffly. Just because he’d violated some taboo didn’t mean he wanted anyone else getting the same idea. “How much are they worth?”

The blacksmith reached in and took one out, holding it up to the light so she could examine it properly with an appraising squint. “I’d say about 17 septims each.”

Yves sucked in his breath. “Truly? That low?”

She just shrugged. “I’ve got a business to run. It takes two of them to make a single ingot, given all the impurities. 17, take it or leave it.”

Back in High Rock, all he’d had to do was walk into a store and they’d known who he was. Haggling was of course not necessary with his finances, but even if the need somehow arose, the Montclair name alone would have had the shopkeepers scrambling to earn his favor. Not so here. He sighed, deeply frustrated. “I’ll take what I can get, then.”

She counted out 68 septims and handed them over. Hefrowned at the coins in his hand for a second, but didn’t put them away. “Say…would you happen to have any iron ore for sale?”

Her brow wrinkled in confusion, but naturally the customer was always right. “A few. Would you like to purchase them?”

“Yes.”

He exchanged 24 of his septims for 4 more pieces of ore, thanked the blacksmith, then nonchalantly headed behind the shop where he proceeded to transmute that ore out of sight of the general population. He wasn’t going to sell it right back to her, of course; he’d head over to Belethor’s and pawn it off there. Maybe he’d have another piece or two to transmute...

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

As Yves trudged up the stairs to Dragonsreach, he stared at his hands. He couldn’t shake this feeling of self-loathing. First, he’d killed with his magic to earn money. Then, he’d broken the rules of nature with his magic to earn money. What would he do next under the premise of survival? And by that point, would the man Yves was survive even if his body did?

All throughout his training with High Priestess Danica, he struggled more than usual to master the spell as he caught sight of his haggard reflection in the pools of water inside the temple. The last two weeks had left him even more gaunt than usual, with dark circles under his eyes from tossing and turning throughout the night. His normally neatly-trimmed goatee was becoming barely noticeable amongst all the stubble. He was a mess, just a shadow of the great man he had been back in Shornhelm. The thought of this becoming his reality terrified him.

Danica had no idea of his internal struggles. She was simply trying to teach him a healing spell, something used for good. At this point, did such a spell belong in his hands? He’d only been able to rekindle the spark of magical connection to healing after falling into a trance deep enough to disconnect from his own body, albeit briefly. Danica had been the guiding light as she used a healing hands spell on him, providing just enough stimulus to coax the desired reaction. Yves could now heal himself to a slight degree, though even that was not going to fix everything wrong on the inside.

He pushed open the keep’s massive doors once again, continuing on his journey to see Farengar. How much longer would he keep on living like this? How much longer could his sanity endure it? How many spells would be enough before he felt prepared to ride for Solitude? For now, though, the most important question was which spell to purchase from Farengar with the small bit of coin he still had left after his cheating ways.

“I’m here to buy,” he declared weakly as he drew close to the shrouded mage.

Farengar set down the soul gem he had been inspecting. “Again? Still working hard at the whole mage thing, eh?”

Yves scowled, but didn’t have the energy left to fight. “What do you have for less than 100 septims?”

“A few things, very basic things.” Farengar turned around and pulled out a crate of books from under his workstation. “Alteration? Illusion?”

He truly didn’t care. “Surprise me. I’ll need to master it all eventually.”

“Why? Are you trying to get into the college?” The court wizard selected a volume dedicated to fear spells and turned to address him. “You’d have your work cut out for you.”

“What college?”

“Hmph, I guess not then. How can you not have heard of the College of Winterhold? Founded by Arch-mage Shalidor, the greatest of all Nord mages?”

“Ah, right, that college,” he rubbed his eyes. Of course he’d heard of it. Any student worth their salt had. Even if Shalidor was no Breton or elf, his knowledge and power had been among the most formidable in the history of magic. “I guess I just thought it was dwindled down to nothing since Winterhold fell into the sea. Haven’t exactly heard much of them in current events.”

“That part of the city was unscathed. They are still operational, even if traffic has thinned out in recent years.” Farengar eyed him. “Maybe you should go there. They are desperate enough right now to take ANY student with a decent grasp of magic. This might just be a lucky break for you.”

While his first instinct was to reject the condescending mage’s idea out of spite, he ruminated on it for a moment. True, it would involve heading in the complete opposite direction from Shornhelm, but… A place to study magic. No distractions, other academics who would understand him, no need to fill bounties or haul items to keep a roof over his head and food on his plate… In short, a place that could keep him from going further astray. A place to save Yves as he was.

“We’ll see,” he mumbled, shoving the coin across the table and grabbing the tome. But in his heart he knew. There was just enough gold for a shave and a carriage ride to Winterhold.


	5. Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting into the College of Winterhold proves harder than Yves thought. He might have to rely on that idiot Argonian to put in a good word even if it hurts.

“What’s in the box, Master?”

At first, six-year-old Yves had been too shy to say much around the elderly tutor his father had hired to help him develop his advanced magic skills. The man had scary, bushy eyebrows the color of fresh snow, and he frowned all the time. He was also easily the oldest person Yves had ever seen (though he realized later in life the man wasn’t THAT terribly old, only in his early seventies when he began his work for the Montclair family). Once he helped Yves create his first magelight, however, the boy felt a much greater sense of ease around him. Intimidating or not, Master Comtois was going to help him learn all sorts of amazing spells if he was a good student, and the more he asked, the more he would share.

Instead of replying, the teacher pulled the cover off of the box, then held it out towards Yves so the boy could peek inside.

He nearly shrieked, and he most definitely scooted away with wide eyes. “W-w-what are you going to do with rats?” He began shaking his head frantically. “I don’t want to do anything with rats! They are disgusting and they bite people! Teach me a different spell!”

“Yves, what do you call the emotion you are feeling right now?” Master Comtois began patiently, still refusing to pull the box away from his charge.

The boy pouted. “Rats are scary.”

“And so you feel…”

“…afraid,” he finally admitted, ducking his head and looking greatly displeased at having to say it out loud.

“That’s normal. Many people are afraid of rats. But what if you could make the rats afraid of you, Yves? Would they be so scary then, as they run away in terror?”

He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the fat, chittering creatures turning long, naked tail at the sight of him. “I’d feel like they couldn’t touch me. They’d still be gross, but I’d feel safe.”

“I intend to teach you the fear spell today, boy. It is an Illusion spell, meaning it makes the people and creatures you cast it on believe things that aren’t true. You can make them believe you are too powerful to fight and they will run. You could escape any danger with little effort. It’s a good spell to practice for a boy your age.”

“So I can scare away the scary things?” Now he brightened at the idea.

“Yes, but first you’ll have to really internalize the feeling of fear. And that means, well…” Master Comtois looked down into the box. “You must first reach in and pet the rats.”

He must have heard wrong. There was no way his teacher was asking him to touch such filthy horrors! “I won’t! Mother would not want me to touch them! She’ll have you fired!” Normally, Yves was not so headstrong, but the fear that was rising now was pushing him to desperation.

But Master Comtois only shook his head, serious as ever. “I’ve already asked her for permission. She and your father both gave it to me. If you touch them gently, they shouldn’t bite. If they do, I can heal you with my spells. Besides, these rats were raised especially for experiments; they are not dirty like those found on the streets.”

“I don’t care! I still won’t!” He continued to back away, shaking his head the entire time. “I don’t want your fear spell!”

“Well now, Yves, what will be scarier: touching the rats, or your father when he finds out you have been causing trouble in your lessons?” He raised a prominent eyebrow as his voice took a hard edge. “Well?”

Both were about the most terrifying thing the boy could imagine. There didn’t seem to be any way of getting out of both scenarios…. If he tried to touch the rats, at least he could learn new things. If he refused, his father, besides giving him a good smack, might take away his magic lessons. He might also be disappointed with him.

It took a long while to work up his nerve, but Comtois waited expectantly as all the thoughts bounced around his student’s head. Yves finally took a few shuffling steps closer to the box, then reached out with a shaky hand. His first instinct was to withdraw it as soon as he looked into the box, however, his whole body tensing in apprehension. That wasn’t going to work! He decided he’d have to close his eyes. Still trembling, he tried again, doing his best to imagine the box was filled with puppies. Illusion magic was all about making people believe things that were not true… As soon as his fingers made contact with fur, he withdrew as if he’d touched a hot coal. “I touched it, I touched it, okay? Now teach me the spell!”

“Very well. But one more word of warning, Yves.”

“Yes, Master?”

“This is a spell for small creatures and weak-willed humans. If you ever try to cast it on a skilled mage like myself or your father, you will fail. And if we hear about you casting it on ANYONE besides strangers who threaten you, you will be very, very afraid. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes sir!”

Learning magelight was much more fun.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

“Shor’s bones! Quit with that magic before you light my wagon on fire!”

Startled and intimidated by the carriage driver’s aggression, the flames Yves was sustaining in his hands guttered out. “Sorry, sir. Just trying to keep warm…”

“That’s what gloves are for, not balls of fire! Dibella’s tits, you college mages…”

There wasn’t much to see as the carriage rolled on across the open tundra of north-eastern Skyrim, so it was difficult not to focus on how cold he was. Having no gloves (or any suitably warm apparel for that matter), he’d tried to warm himself with a subdued flames spell as the frigid winds off the sea burst over the cliffs like a crashing wave. Perhaps it was the gentle sound of the flames crackling, but the driver had noticed what he was doing before long, swiveling in his seat to cast an angry glare. Now properly chastised, Yves resigned himself to suffer in silence rather than argue with the scary Nord who he depended on at the current moment. It didn’t stop him from internally complaining about absurd Nord prejudices.

To distract himself from his growing misery, Yves began taking an inventory of his regained spells and rubbing his frozen hands together. Conjure familiar, obviously, and now flames and healing. The transmute ore was a sort of bonus. All spells from different schools…would that be enough to get him into the college? Perhaps he should find something to practice that new Fear spell on so he could demonstrate the Illusion school as well.

He was jolted back to reality as the carriage began to descend a steep incline, seemingly out of nowhere. “Welcome to Winterhold!” the driver reported as cheerfully as possible. That took a great deal of effort, considering the dismal state of the “city” they had apparently just arrived in. Honestly, to call it such was just an insult to the term. There were very few buildings, all simple structures made of wood, and half of them were in utter ruin, roofs long collapsed and huge gaps in the walls. Judging by the quantity of snow filling them, they had been in such a state for a great while. To Yves, this just looked like an outpost at the end of the world. Indeed, the world seemed to end as he stared further north-east, the snow melding into ice, and then to the sea, all covered in a white snowy haze. When he’d heard of the College of Winterhold, he’d never pictured it among such a lifeless landscape.

There was no mistake, though. The college remained, a towering stone structure resting on a pillar of ice, just as the historical accounts reported after the Great Collapse. The only thing connecting this pillar was a long stone bridge. He had to give the place points for privacy at any rate.

“Is it this cold all the time?” Yves hugged himself as another gust threatened to work its way into his very bones.

“Aye, sometimes even worse. Don’t know how those Dunmer that visit can stand the cold. Even a Nord would need a long drink of mead and a few bear pelts once the sun goes down.”

“Lovely,” he replied flatly. This college had better have heat enchantments in all the rooms, or else he was going to be renouncing this little venture.

“I’ll just drop you off by the inn here. The innkeeper and his wife are quite hospitable, and can help you find what you need before you head to the College.” The carriage creaked to a halt. It took Yves a few moments to regain feeling of his legs between the chill and the disuse for so many hours. He nearly fell as he tried to disembark. “Good luck!”

“Thanks…”

The driver clicked his tongue at the snow-dazzled horse pulling his cart, urging it forward. That just left Yves. The only good part about such cold weather was that there was no one outside to stare at him. He began to walk as best he could through the snow right past the inn; there was no need to stop inside, seeing as he’d spent the last of his septims on that spell tome and the fare for the carriage. If they didn’t let him join the College, well, he didn’t want to think about it. Shoving his hands into the pockets of his robes, he pressed on to the bridge.

He saw a regal-looking Altmer woman clad in master level robes as he approached, the bands of crimson crisscrossing the deep black. She blocked the way forward, arms folded and looking unimpressed with him. Of course, that may be the natural resting expression for an Altmer… It mattered not. He was just relieved to finally see a worthy mage! “What business have you with the college?” she inquired brusquely.

“I seek entrance to this venerated community of scholars,” he replied with a slight bow of his head.

“For what purpose?”

There was so much he could say, but so little he was willing to. He settled on “To increase my power.”

She raised a skeptical eyebrow. “It is true there is great power in magic, but not everyone is worthy to wield it. What would you do with power if you gained it?”

That was at least an easy answer. “I would right an injustice”

“Hmm…that could be noble. Or it could be selfish. Only time will tell. Either way, you’ll have to prove you have some ability with magic.” The Altmer stepped back, gesturing to an embossed metal plate bearing the insignia of the college. “Once I see you cast a Firebolt spell at this symbol, I will allow you to pass.”

Yves’s already pale skin must have blanched further at the news. Firebolt spell? He’d only barely gotten his flames under control! He should have known they’d require at least an apprentice level spell for entrance; novice was simply not good enough for such an elite organization. But now what? He had no money left to pay for a carriage or a new spell tome or even a night at the inn!

“I’m guessing you don’t know that spell?” the gatekeeper ventured.

Yves hung his head, grinding his teeth in frustration. “No, ma’am. I’m sorry for wasting your time…”

Before he could slink off with his tail between his legs, she held up a hand. “I could teach it to you for 30 septims, a bargain, really.”

“I know the motions and the words!” he growled before he could keep himself in check.

“Oh, so you have been working on it, you just haven’t quite gotten the hang of it yet. Some more practice then.”

Yves turned his eyes to the sky. It was about noon, as best as he could tell through the thick cloud cover. Perhaps if he worked hard, he could recall it. There really weren’t any options if he didn’t want to freeze once the sun went down. Hopefully desperation would be enough of an inspiration.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

The shores at the base of Winterhold were littered with debris from the collapsed city. Between the rubble peeking out of the sea, half covered in snow, and the chunks of ice floating among it, there was plenty to use for target practice. The foot of the cliff also offered shelter from the wind and privacy as he failed time and time again. The Flames spell he’d regained was a close range attack, and despite him using the unique words and signs for the very similar Firebolt, Flames was all he could ever muster, never once reaching far enough to hit his intended targets. Firebolt simply required more magicka than he had at his disposal to push the fire further. The longer he worked, and the more times he failed to up the intensity, the more afraid he became. Would he be allowed to stay at the inn on the promise of paying later? He certainly didn’t like the idea of begging. As his fear and frustration rose, he wished he’d never left Whiterun. This was all that idiot Farengar’s fault…

In the break between spells, once he got his breathing to calm down, his ears picked up a strange sound, nothing like the waves on the shore or the groan of the glaciers. It was…human? Out here? Though it was hard to tell thanks to the way sounds bounced off the ice, it seemed to be coming from the north, from a craggy island just off the coast. On a normal day, Yves would have dismissed it as someone else’s problem; he knew he wasn’t particularly coordinated, and one slip would result in hypothermia in a best case scenario, or drowning in the worst. After all his shortcomings, though, he was in a mood to be reckless, the growing rage blazing in his blood and goading him into action despite how illogical it was.

With squinting eyes focused on the ice beneath his feet, he shuffled along slowly and surely, perceiving where the ice was thickest and doing his best not to slip. Thankfully he was a small man, his weight not straining the fragile shelf too much. It seemed to take forever to make any progress, yet the sound grew ever more distinct. “Heeeeeeelp!”

Would he actually be able to help even if he made it in time? He was pretty damn useless right now… Still he doggedly pressed on, the prospect of a clear objective too tempting to resist. He finally made it to the island proper after what felt like an eternity, then began curving around the outside edge. “Someone, heeeeeeelp!” The source of the cries was close now, and thankfully still alive despite his torturously slow pace. It also sounded alien somehow, possessing a strange rasp he’d never heard before.

When he rounded the corner, the sight that met his eyes made him do a double take for several reasons. Out in the middle of nowhere, someone had seen fit to build a shrine to what he figured was Talos, a warrior hewn of stone leaning on a great sword. The voice he’d heard belonged to an Argonian wearing mage robes, a combination Yves would never have imagined. He’d attempted to climb up a rocky slope, only to end up dangling as he held on for dear life to a protruding edge. Below him, well, that was the stuff of nightmares. Countless creatures he recognized from his encyclopedias as skeevers snarled and hissed as they circled below the hapless mage. Eager for a morsel, no doubt. They were like the rats of his childhood, but worse: bigger, patches of fur missing altogether, huge teeth jutting out from their mouths… They lived only in the sewers back in Shornhelm, and Yves had never seen one in person before. He would have preferred to keep it that way.

As the mob of angry skeevers triggered his childhood memories, Yves did the first thing that came to mind, and he did it with one foot firmly planted forward just as he’d been taught that afternoon with Master Comtois. “Asustus!” Banish the things that terrified him with his own gift of fear. He hadn’t gotten the chance to practice that spell, but in the moment, his raw feelings of terror and his connection to his past meant the spell came off without a hitch. Each member of the horde seemed to shudder in unison as the word settled over them before tearing off squealing in the opposite direction. Right into the sea. Thank the Divines skeevers were not swimmers; they just sank like rocks beneath the waves, their chittering dying along with them until they were little more than an unpleasant memory.

“Thank Julianos! I thought I was done for!” Seeing that the danger was past, the hapless Argonian relinquished his hold, tumbling to the ground. He picked himself back up with a grunt and attempted to brush the snow from his robes. Yves didn’t need the novice style they bore to inform him that he was indeed dealing with a beginner. “That was quite the spell you cast, friend!”

“What in sweet Aethereus were you doing?!” Yves demanded, gesturing in annoyance at the idiocy of the entire situation and ignoring the compliment.

“Working on my Calm spells. It…wasn’t going well.” The Breton rolled his eyes. No kidding. “I thought if I used some scrolls to cast the spell a few times, I’d get a feel for it, but something went wrong.”

Say, that wasn’t a bad idea, though this incompetent amateur must have messed up something. Yves approached the scene of the disaster, eyes scanning the area further. There were several scrolls lying around, though one in particular had been unfurled near a cage the Argonian had no doubt used to transport his test subjects. He grabbed it, searching for something faulty, and immediately found his answer. “This isn’t a Calm spell, this is a Fury spell!”

“I…oh. It must have gotten mixed in with the others?”

“And why in Arkay’s name did you decide on skeevers for a test subject? Wouldn’t rabbits have been more appropriate?”

“I…ummm…yes, probably.”

“And to top it off, experimenting way out here with no one to help you if something went wrong? You are lucky I was close enough to hear you calling for help!”

“Look, I get it, okay? I messed up,” the Argonian hissed, folding his arms defensively. The way his tongue flickered was unnerving. “You don’t have to rub it in.”

Yves sighed, gathering up the remaining Calm scrolls from the make-shift camp. He’d keep a few unused ones as compensation for his rescue. Perhaps he could use them to help him get his Calm spell back. At the very least he could sell them for enough coin to get a room for the night. If the victim was going to protest as he stuffed the goods in his satchel, he thought better of it. He wasn’t exactly in a place to argue. “I take it you are practicing to get into the Mage’s College?”

The mage before him puffed out his chest in misplaced pride. “I already am a member of the Mage’s College.”

“You…really?” He stared unashamedly. “Your teachers were okay with you doing something this reckless?” Besides the fact that this mage, who couldn’t even read a scroll properly, seemed incapable of gaining entrance. No need to be THAT rude.

This earned a shrug. “They are pretty hands-off at the college. As long as you aren’t trying to kill each other, the Arch-Mage basically lets you do whatever you feel is appropriate. My whole class went off to do experiments yesterday. I don’t even know where they all ended up.”

Yves’s opinion of the institution he was seeking entrance to plummeted in a matter of seconds. The unprofessionalism of it all was appalling. “Sounds like a wonderfully supportive place to fine-tune one’s craft…”

“I’m Ilas-Tei, by the way,” the Argonian offered, holding out his scaly hand to shake.

His eyes flickered down briefly, then he shoved his own hands in his pockets. He’d never met an Argonian, much less touched one. His skin was scaly and strange and he was not up for that on top of everything else. “And I’m Yves Mo-…I’m Yves. I’m here to get into the college.”

Ilas-Tei seemed put off by his unfriendly reaction, but attempted to be the bigger person as it were. “Well, judging by the way you cast that Fear spell, you should have no problem.”

He hadn’t meant to humble the Breton, but he did with that remark. “They want to see a Firebolt,” he admitted in a low voice. “I don’t have that yet.”

A toothy grin crept across Ilas-Tei’s face. “If you give me my scrolls back, I could put in a good word for you…”

To owe his acceptance to this loser? Unacceptable! Yet as he looked to the horizon, he was dismayed to note the sun was beginning to set. There simply wasn’t time. Though it pained him to say it, he grabbed the scrolls from his satchel and spat “Fine.”

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

“Ilas-Tei, is that you?” The sharp-eyed guardian of the entrance picked out the green scaly skin from a decent distance, though to be fair Yves couldn’t imagine there were any other Argonians around.

“Yes, Faralda, I’ve returned from my experiments. And I found this one,” he gestured nonchalantly to Yves.

“Ah, did you help him with his Firebolt spell?”

Before he could answer, Yves shot him a meaningful glare. “Well, the thing is…I may have been having some troubles with my experiments, and he may have…uhh…helped me.”

“I saved him,” Yves amended pointedly. “From skeevers.”

Faralda gave an exasperated sigh rather than congratulate him on his feat of bravery. “Why in the world were you working with skeevers on your own, apprentice?”

“Trust me, you are not the first person to ask that,” he frowned, averting his gaze. 

She returned to address Yves once more. “If I may, how did you handle the skeevers?”

“With a fear spell.”

“A fear spell?” For some reason, that seemed to impress her. “Ilas-Tei, is that true?”

“It is.”

“Hmmm…in that case, you may have what it takes to gain entrance to our college. That, and, of course, you did save one of our students.”

Yves’s eyes widened. “You’ll forget about the Firebolt? Even though Fear is only a novice-level spell?”

“Fear is, by our standards, one of the options we may choose for entry. Most students excel in destruction or healing, hence us requesting more advanced techniques in those fields. Few come in with any control over the school of Illusion. As such, even though it is a novice spell within that school, it is still deemed acceptable as proof of ability.”

He was not going to question that logic, even if saying one school was harder than another seemed immature. “So, I’m in then?”

“You’re in. Follow me across the bridge; the way ahead is treacherous if you go without knowing the proper seals. We take great pride in our security, after all.”

As she went ahead, beginning to deactivate the first barrier, Ilas-Tei leaned over to Yves, making the man cringe at his proximity. He could easily imagine that reptilian tongue of his flicking in his ear. “You’re welcome.”

“Right, right, thank you.” He didn’t mean it, but he said it anyhow. Hopefully he could avoid this fool once he tested out of his novice classes.


	6. Lesser Ward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the College of Winterhold. In true Yves fashion, he's managed to become both the teacher's pet and the butt-end of his classmates' jokes in less than twenty four hours. At least his ward spell is better than yours, though the cost was high.

“Father?” Young Yves was confused to find the clan patriarch waiting for him on the training patio instead of Master Comtois. The afternoon was, after all, the time of the day dedicated to his casting instruction, and all exercises were done on this special area of the grounds under his expert tutor’s critical eye. Meanwhile, his father was always occupied with some manner of family business, both on and off the estate, during daylight hours. A shared formal dinner each night was the only time for the family to come together. To see him standing there, the boy couldn’t keep the hint of excitement from his voice. Perhaps this was a special chance to spend some time with him. Perhaps he was going to help him work on a new spell, just the two of them!

“Yves, I will be taking over for Master Comtois today. I wished to personally oversee this lesson,” his father began, hands clasped behind his back. He looked just as strict as his master, and the boy’s excitement withered at the sight. “He expressed concern over executing the lesson on lesser wards, the next logical progression to your abilities. I agreed that he ought to leave it to me.”

He was speaking so seriously, Yves felt his stomach turn a little in apprehension. “Why is Master Comtois afraid of wards? Aren’t those about protection?”

“And how can he teach you about protection without instilling some fear within you? How can you grasp the spell without understanding what you are protecting yourself from? He didn’t feel comfortable with the responsibility of potentially inflicting harm on you, no matter how slight, and indeed that responsibility should be mine. That is my role as your father.” Before he knew what was happening, the elder Montclair snapped his fingers at his son, and Yves was struck with a small jolt of electricity. The boy yelped, though he was too stunned for tears. “He should not cause you pain. Only I can do that.”

“Father, wait! Show me what to do! Maybe I’ll learn it without…oww!” Another zap, this time enough to leave his hands tingling. He clenched them into fists as if to alleviate the sting and held them to his chest.

“Magic is dangerous, son. This little sparks spell is nothing compared to the forces of destruction that most experienced mages can wield. Being so attuned to your ward that it can be thrown up on instinct might be the only thing to save you. There IS no learning this without enduring some suffering. You have been sheltered from it your whole life, but pain will teach you not to take your spells lightly.” When Yves got the next zap, this time strong enough to cause tears to well in his eyes, he wasn’t sure which frightened him more, the pain or the stone cold expression on his father’s face. “Magic comes easily to you. It is crucial you learn to treat it with reverence before you cause harm to yourself or others. You will learn this before you learn any other spells.” 

The man was about to send yet another shock, but the sight of his child with lip quivering and stray tears trickling down his cheeks stayed his magicka. He sighed. Yves was just so young. Surely he didn’t require the strict lesson an older child would need, seeing as he was still so compliant. This was probably enough to drive his point home. “Do you understand what I am trying to tell you, Yves?”

The little boy nodded frantically, with eyes squeezed shut.

“Let me hear you.”

“Yes, father! I understand!”

“What is the lesson?”

“Be careful with magic!”

“Good. Now, I am going to show you the proper signs and incantations for the ward spell. Someday you will be so attuned to the spell that you will not need these to cast it, but they will help get you started. Then, once you have them down, I am going to keep sending sparks at you until you are able to block them. Of course, each time you fail, you get a shock.” Brown eyes widened in horror. “Let’s begin.”

It was hard to focus on the motions and words with his mind in such a state of distress, and in retrospect, his father regretted not getting the learning part out of the way first. Once he proved adept, the real lesson began. As his father had hoped, it only took four failed attempts before Yves cast his first successful ward.

Normally, a triumph like this filled him with pride, but this was different. Today was different. The boy desperately wanted a hug, or at least some other form of reassurance now that it was over. All he got was a healing hands spell to negate the shock damage and a wordless nod of approval. Master Comtois would return tomorrow.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Mirabelle Ervine was a breath of fresh air. Perhaps it was her Breton blood, but something about her reminded Yves of home, the no-nonsense attitude in particular, like his father and Master Comtois. As Faralda had led them inside, they encountered her putting a Thalmor agent in his place using clipped tones (and what was he doing there anyhow? Colleges were no place for politics!). Once she finished with him, she came over and led him on a brief tour of the college while Ilas-Tei slunk away. Her steel grey eyes followed him even as she continued her welcome speech. Yves got the impression that the slippery Argonian hadn’t actually gotten approval for his little experiment… Good, it seemed there was more hope for this college than he had been led to believe.

They toured the lecture hall first, with its fount of magicka flowing freely in the center. This was so mages could practice without draining their magicka reserves, she informed him, and Yves was already eager to begin. Perhaps a steady flow of magicka would be enough to kick-start his more advanced spells! Before that, though, they toured the Arcaneum on the second floor. The library at his Shornhelm estate was among the finest in all of High Rock, but even his private collection had nothing on this, the shelves upon shelves of books covering the walls front to back. He might just spend all his free time in here reading if not for the grumpy, white-haired orc guarding the place from his perch at the check-out desk. The tusks in particular were unsettling. Still, he could respect the librarian for the dedication he had for the books. The threat that he would be torn apart by angry atronachs if he let harm come to a single page was more comforting than threatening, representing a sort of kindred spirit despite his inhuman appearance.

The sun had set by the time they exited the main hall and crossed the courtyard. “I will end by showing you your quarters. Each of the apprentices has a room in the Hall of Attainment. Inside you will find a bed, some cupboards, and a new set of robes and boots.” Boots? Thank Julianos! His borrowed Imperial boots were not fitting any better than they had the first day he’d put them on! “Should you need an arcane enchanter or an alchemy lab, you will find them next door in the Hall of Countenance. That is also where our faculty reside. If you wish for one-on-one tutoring, you may contact them there.”

“When is meal time?” Yves ventured, thankful his empty stomach had not interrupted this tour.

She gave him a strange look. “Whenever you want it to be. We don’t feed you here, you know.”

“You…ah, I see.” He studied the ground, hoping to hide the flush on his face. Why had he been expecting those accommodations? It wasn’t as if they were assigned a tuition fee to pay for such things… He supposed it was just hard to imagine a world where he was in his element, yet dinner wasn’t served to him.

Mirabelle must have seen, because she continued, “If you need something for tonight, I can come up with some basic provisions. I would not see a student go hungry, of course.”

“I have a little bit left in my satchel, it will suffice. But thank you for your generosity.” He bowed. It was certainly a good thing he hadn’t brought it up in front of a whole group of people. What an embarrassment!

“You may leave the college at any time to purchase goods in town. Food, potions, extra clothes, all those things are on you. The wards Faralda helped you to bypass now have your magical signature imbued in them, allowing you free passage.” When she saw his brow furrow in confusion, no doubt trying to understand how he was to fund these things, she added “Many students take side jobs to support themselves. Some do bounties for the Jarl, which also aids in promoting good-will. Some run deliveries for our enchanting services. Others brew and sell potions. I’m sure you will find a means. Now, your room is the first one directly on the right of the door. I will not intrude, as most of the students are winding down for the day. Please see me next door if you have any emergency, otherwise you are to report to the lecture hall in the morning for your first lesson with Tolfdir and the other new apprentices. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.” It was all a lot to take in, but it seemed he’d have plenty of time to himself to reflect on his current situation. Him and that extra bottle of Alto Wine.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

He’d fallen asleep quickly that night despite the deer head hanging over the bed (Nords and their tacky decoration sense…) It was certainly the combination of alcohol, exhaustion from the road, and a sense of security he hadn’t felt sleeping at the public inns that led to the best rest he’d gotten since his abduction from Shornhelm.

A voice, heavily laced with a teasing purr, roused him from his slumber. “Breton. No surprise, I suppose.”

After all he’d been through, Yves did not sleep as soundly as he used to. His eyes flew open at the sound, and to see yellow, cat-like eyes staring back instilled a terror in him that sent his heart racing. Before he even fully regained consciousness, he was throwing up a ward to shield himself from the feline intruder, who bounced backwards to the stone floor.

“Geez, J’Zargo, serves you right for barging in like that!” a female voice scolded pointedly. Yves’s gaze swept the area, noting that in addition to the Khajiit he had knocked to the ground, a Dunmer in apprentice robes, hood pulled over her head so most of her face was covered, peered in from outside the entrance to his room. There was also a taller, stockier man with a pronounced underbite gaping in the background as if this were a spectacle of some kind.

“What in Oblivion?!” Yves snapped, spell dissipating as he realized he was not in any actual danger. Still, the adrenaline from his shock coursed through him. “Is it a Nord tradition to barge into a stranger’s room and ogle them as they sleep?! Perhaps some kind of quaint hazing ceremony?!”

“We heard there was a new student joining our class. I had hoped it would be a fellow Nord, but I can see THAT’S not the case,” the fellow in the back scowled. “And here I thought you’d appreciate being woken up in time for our first class.”

What nerve! Why did this rube get to be grumpy when he was clearly the injured party? “A simple greeting from outside the doorway would have sufficed,” he snipped, doing his best not to show how unsettled he was by the realization that he’d overslept. His movements remained nonchalant as he extracted himself from his bed. “Next time, it may not be a ward, but a lightning bolt, and I have no intention of sweeping up your ashes from my bedroom floor.”

“So, you think you are powerful enough to cast lightning from a half-conscious state?” The Khajiit picked himself up and dusted himself off while eyeing Yves appraisingly. “I must admit, the reflexes on your ward are impressive, but J’zargo too has honed reflexes.”

Cat-like ones, no doubt. “Let’s not test that.” He fumbled for his boots. Before he could finish pulling them on, the trio was walking away without another word. Good riddance then. Perhaps it was too much to hope for that his classmates would be more refined than Ilas-Tei.

By the time he straightened up his robes and washed his face, they had already disappeared from the courtyard. Running would look undignified, so he had to settle for walking swiftly, fighting against the sharp wind as it attempted to pull away his hood. By Julianos, being so late on the first day… How much longer would he have slept if not for the rude awakening? Now his professor was going to think him of the same low class as the others thanks to this negative first impression. Tardiness would have earned him at least a solid rap to the knuckles from Master Comtois back in his youth! 

Yves did his best to ease open the doors to the lecture hall so as not to draw attention to himself, and he immediately noticed the trio from earlier standing before an old man in black and crimson master robes, whose air of authority echoed with each word against the stone of the hall.

“The first thing to understand is that magic is, by its very nature, volatile and dangerous. Unless you can control it, it can and will destroy you.” Yves had to smile just a fraction at those familiar words. It seemed his new teacher shared his father’s philosophy; he was already impressed.

He may have been the only one in the room. The Dunmer girl quickly piped up. “Sir, I think we all understand that fairly well. We wouldn’t be here if we couldn’t control magic!”

“Of course, my dear, of course. You all certainly possess some inherent natural ability. That much is not being questioned. What I’m talking about is true control, mastery of magic. It takes years, if not decades, of practice and study.” Exactly! Being able to cast a few simple spells was not mastery, not by a long shot! Even before life went to Oblivion, he hadn’t considered himself a full master despite his wide and deep repertoire of spells. There was always so much to learn and refine!

“Then what are we waiting for? Let’s get started!” The Khajiit rubbed his hands in anticipation. Something about the twitch in his tail betrayed a sort of desperation his words hadn’t conveyed.

“Please, please! This is exactly what I’m talking about! Eagerness must be tempered with caution, or else disaster is inevitable.”

“But we’ve only just arrived here; you’ve no idea what any of us are capable of!” the Nord bellowed, hands on his hips defiantly. All three of them looked like petulant children despite being fully grown; it was sad considering at half their age Yves had been a model student. Why did they dare challenge their teacher? He clearly knew more than them, or else they wouldn’t have come. Now it was wasting time because he had to handle their outbursts! 

He continued, his tone changed, lightened up. It took on a hopeful air. “Why not give us a chance to show you what we can do?” As if that was going to work.

Suddenly, the teacher turned to face Yves, who had been lost in his thoughts in the back of the hall. “You there. You’re awfully quiet. Everyone else had made their opinions clear, so what do you think we should do?”

“Safety is the number one priority,” Yves responded dutifully. Just as it had been drilled in his head long ago. “Magic easily kills fools, whether victim or caster.”

“A much more pragmatic notion, though you stand alone on that side of the issue.” He wasn’t kidding; the others were all rolling their eyes and folding their arms. Yves simply brushed it off. It wasn’t as if this was the first time he’d ostracized himself from his peers. “Very well then. You all wish to get started developing a skill, and we have at least one vote for safety. Wards it is, then. We will see if you can use one to successfully block an incoming spell. You in the back, what is your name?”

“Yves, sir.”

“Given your cautious nature, I assume you have some experience with wards?”

“Yes, sir.” What a relief that he had gotten one to manifest not an hour before! It would be quite embarrassing not to be able to pull it off after his talk. As it was, he felt a sense of satisfaction as he noted the Khajiit wincing at the very mention of wards. Even the girl was hiding what was obviously a giggle.

“All right, I’ll have you demonstrate how it is done. Stand there, and when I cast, engage your ward. Are you ready?”

“Yes-“

Yves had barely answered when he felt a sudden surge in magical energy in the man before him, and before he could even fully consider his response, he’d formed his ward. A honed reflex, whether coming out of sleep or in a sudden attack. A life-saving skill crucial to the scion of house Montclair. Whatever the teacher had cast fizzled out on his ward.  
“Impressive!” the teacher nodded, lowering his hands from the sudden onslaught. “You have been taught before, I presume? Few attain that level of instinctual use on their own.”

Suddenly, he was nervous. He wasn’t keen on giving out too much information on the off-chance that it would get back to Laurent before he was ready for a confrontation. Mirabelle Ervine had asked blessedly few questions when giving him his tour, and the lack of any true registration was the one area of laxness he was not about to criticize the college for. “When I was young, yes.”

“No doubt about safety.” The man chuckled as he walked over to him. “You have a pass for today’s lesson. Now, Mirabelle mentioned you were looking for a job? Drevis Neloran, the master of Illusion, is looking for some help with cleansing the magical focal points around the college if that sounds agreeable to you. Someone with such fine control should be able to assist. He’s a Dunmer fellow, white hair, can be found in the library.”

Yves nodded appreciatively. “Thank you, sir. I will find him right away.”

“Good. And about tomorrow’s lesson, be ready at the main gates at dawn…”

“If you can, sleeping beauty!” the Khajiit interjected with a grin, not about to miss his chance. His companions snickered at the well-placed jab.

The teacher simply cleared his throat, ignoring them. “We’ll be leaving as a group to head to Saarthal, a history lesson and study of the practical application of ward runes.” Behind him, the eyes of each student, previously glum at the prospect of working on wards, lit up with excitement.

“Understood, sir.”

The man paused thoughtfully. “Oh, and by the way, my name is Tolfdir. I’m the master of Alteration here at the College, but I’m also in charge of this rotation of students. I think I forgot to mention that to you after you arrived.”

Yves nodded in agreement. “Is there anything else I should know?”

“No, you are free to go.” Tolfdir finally turned to address the rest of the students. “Now, which of you will be next? Anyone already have a grasp of wards?”

As Yves turned to head to the Arcaneum, he heard the girl’s voice, full of concern. “I do not. But sir, what spell are you going to be throwing at us, exactly? You know, in case I don’t get it right the first time?”

Finally, thinking about the consequences! Yves was nearly to the stairwell when Tolfdir’s response reached his ears. It had him stopping in his tracks. “Oh, it’s simply a calm spell. Harmless, but you will feel it if it lands.”

He never saw the way the girl’s shoulders relaxed at this revelation. He was too busy blinking in surprise at the choice of spell. No pain for failure? Why, they’d never master it as thoroughly as he did without the fear of harm! Because clearly that was the reason his father had used destruction magic on a young boy instead of a flimsy alteration spell, wasn’t it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unlike with other spells so far, I didn't assign any incantation to the ward. I imagine it works fundamentally differently, expelling magical energy from the body to diffuse oncoming magic. Really, it would just be impractical to weave any signs or recite something when a fireball is coming at you...


	7. Frost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People are difficult. Better to keep a cool demeanor until you can get away. Too bad Yves won't be able to do that forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're going to start seeing some main questline action, but revamped. Because I think we all had many things we felt made no sense during some of those quests...

“Sometimes you don’t want to burn your enemies to a crisp, you merely want to slow them down, warn them that pressing further will not be wise. This is when you would use a frost spell rather than flames to defend yourself.”

Little Yves had never liked the idea of having to turn people into ashes, though he’d worked hard to master the flames spell at his teacher’s urging. Even without Master Comtois’s insistence, a spell was a spell, and he’d have striven for perfection anyhow as per his personality. Frost, however, didn’t sound as violent even if it was also a destruction spell. It should be easier to embrace. “So it won’t be so dangerous,” he observed with a small sigh of relief.

Master Comtois clicked his tongue is disagreement. “Don’t underestimate the damage frost can do, Yves. Men lose fingers, toes, and even noses to the cold, and if exposed to freezing air or water for too long, they will die. The body slowly stops working when its temperature falls too far. Frost is dangerous, just like flames. The difference is that it takes longer to kill and must be applied with a conscious effort. You are correct though in the sense that it is harder to accidentally harm someone with it.”

“Okay, I understand. I’m ready.” 

Comtois was surprised by how receptive Yves was to the idea after the debacle with the flames. Perhaps it was the fact that it was a more controlled element that appealed to his conservative nature. “Very well then. We will go through the signs and incantations, then see how far we can get.”

It turned out Yves couldn’t get very far at all, which puzzled both him and his instructor. Comtois kept telling him to remember the feeling of a bone-deep chill, but Yves had never experienced such a thing in his comfortable life. He was always bundled up in fine wool any time he ventured out for whatever reason in the middle of winter. He and his brother were discouraged from playing outside when snow covered the ground. The closest he could think of was touching a frosty window on an Evening Star morning, but even that wasn’t enough.

He found his inspiration in an unexpected place the next day. Instead of his usual lessons, his father made an unexpected appearance, summoning him after lunch to entertain the children of one of his guests, another noble there on business. Perhaps his father thought it would be doing him a kindness to arrange some sort of playdate with others close to his age, but he was sorely mistaken. Social events with peers were rare, leaving him ill-prepared to handle the situation. Once the adults moved on, leaving the boys to their own devices, Yves shyly offered to show them his favorite place in the manor: the library.

“Library? Why would we want to spend any extra time with books? We have no lessons today!” one of them rolled his eyes. 

“Oh, I just thought…”

“Don’t you have any balls? Or toy swords? Something a NORMAL person would play with?” the other interjected.

“I mean, I do, but…” His voice was barely audible under their mocking.

“Then let’s go already! I’m bored just talking about libraries!”

Yves spent the rest of that afternoon sitting off by himself as his guests entertained themselves with the toys he rarely used. Laurent, despite being three years his junior, had wormed his way into the activities, happy to play catch and wave around a sword even if he was still too young to be very coordinated. Meanwhile, Yves fought the urge to cry as he watched, the feeling of loneliness becoming overwhelming. He was different. People didn’t like him. To keep his mind from the pain, he found himself mumbling and signing what he’d practiced in his lessons the other day, wishing to be there instead.

It just felt natural when the cold he felt inside manifested on the outside. Being able to trace patterns with frost on the stones of the patio kept him from crumbling. Little did he know that this skill, this ability to freeze, would apply just as much to his emotions as to the physical world. In the years to come, it would help him to survive in ways he’d never imagined as a boy.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

He was grateful to both Tolfdir and Drevis Neloran for the work. While he didn’t get paid, he did fish out a few soul gems from the stream of magicka which he was able to sell to the head of enchanting. He also got a wash of magic flowing through him despite the tuning gloves he was given, waves of it rippling along his arms as he reached deep to remove the impurities. Neloran had warned him this may bolster or damage his magicka, unpredictable as it was, but he figured that with his reserves so dwindled it was far more likely to help.

It did. He returned to the practice hall later that afternoon once lessons were complete and his colleagues had cleared out, feeling something simmering inside. It begged him to try something more powerful, something he had been grasping for but had been unable to reach earlier. The targets were all lined up, so with the proper words and gestures, the firebolt came at last, leaving scorch marks on the stone that bore the brunt of his attack. Yves felt inexplicably relieved to have it back. True, he had never been one for destruction magic, but given how things were going lately, he wasn’t keen on only having a destruction spell that worked at close range. Drawing from the fount, he recharged and tried again and again, not only establishing it, but working the aim he had never quite mastered.

He could have continued his work longer, the magicka fount an unexpected and delightful boon, but he realized through the tinted windowpanes that the sun was starting to set. He was NOT going to be eating stale bread again; now with a few septims, he wanted to make a quick trip to the inn and buy a hot bowl of soup at the very least. He’d need strength for the hike to Saarthal in the morning. The bridge back to Winterhold unnerved him as he crossed, fearing that a strong gust of wind would carry him away, but the promise of a decent meal was motivation enough to persevere.

It never occurred to him that he’d open the door of the Frozen Hearth to find his three classmates already there, dining with their backs to the door. Besides their robes, the Khajiit’s tail was a dead give-away. Yves almost groaned. Was he socially obligated to greet them even though they really didn’t know each other yet? Should he pretend not to have noticed them and wait to see if they’d address him first? The latter seemed much easier, so he headed to the bar and laid his few septims on the counter. “A bowl of beef stew and a boiled crème treat.”

The innkeeper snatched up the coin and hurried to ready his order. As he waited, he fell into his usual game of listening to the gossip. He’d become quite proficient in this after years of being nearly invisible in a room full of people, and his hearing was sharp. Not that that mattered here given the Nord’s prominent voice.

“I don’t know guys, it seems wrong to be going into Saarthal. My ancestors should be allowed to rest.”

“Hush, Onmund!” the girl hissed, pressing a finger to her lips. “You don’t want to raise a scene here in front of the other Nords, do you?” Indeed. Good thing he was apparently the only one listening.

“If you are afraid to talk about it, that must mean it’s wrong.”

“Or some people can’t place practicality over tradition. There is much we could learn,” the Khajiit argued, taking a long swig of something in his mug.

“You mean ‘much we could take’.” The Nord sounded suspicious, and rightfully so in Yves’ mind. It was already clear the cat had no respect for personal boundaries, so why wouldn’t he violate those of the deceased?

“Hey, for you, my friend, I will not desecrate any bodies, I swear by Magrus.”

“Magrus?”

“You know, the one you humans call ‘Magnus’? The God of Magic?”

“Not in our pantheon. You think Nords would ever worship magic?”

“Oh, right, that’s more of a Breton thing.” He paused. “Do you suppose our new friend prays to Magnus each night? ‘Oh mighty Magnus, bless your humble servant with your gift of magic?”

Yves could feel his body stiffen as he was brought up in the conversation. The Khajiit wasn’t actually WRONG, but he didn’t like the tone he was taking. Then, the Nord just had to chime in, further raising his blood pressure. “More like ‘please keep me safe from magic’.” The words as well as the mocking tone earned a deep chuckle.

“Come on now, guys, he was just being responsible…” At least the girl was making some attempt to defend his honor.

It fell on deaf ears. “Or he’s got a stick up his ass, one of the two. You’ve seen the way he looks at us, like we’re inferior. I was real excited for classes to start until he showed up. Now, they are just going to be a drag.”

“Maybe the ruins will scare him away? I was certain he was a noble the way he carried himself, but when I, shall we say, perused his belongings this afternoon, all I found were some scraps of food and a few cheap potions. No rich boy would be traveling that lean, but still I can’t shake it…”

The Khajiit’s admission was the final straw. Even if his food wasn’t ready, even if he had to go back to that stale bread, he couldn’t stand there a minute longer. As a terribly dull noble, he’d overheard his fair share of negative gossip directed at himself over the years, but after everything he’d endured as of late, there was no shouldering that burden here. It wasn’t as if he was hungry anymore.

“Caeli gelida…” he muttered under his breath, hands weaving an old sign. He was doing his best to keep his emotions in check as he always did, but there was no resisting the temptation to leave his calling card for those other buffoons. As he brushed past, a persistent hint of frost sent shivers down their spines, even those of the fur-covered cat and the hot-blooded Nord. When they turned to find the source of the sudden chill, they caught sight of his novice robes fluttering behind him as he walked out the door.

“…do you think he heard us?” the Nord wondered lamely, his hand unconsciously reaching behind to warm up the cold spot on his back.

The Dunmer just shot him a glare.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Yves didn’t go back to his room, opting instead to keep hurling firebolts at the targets. He’d pent up his aggression, and desperately needed to take it out on something without appearing to lose control. Still, he must have come across as rather ill-tempered, because at one point Ilas-Tei entered the hall only to catch sight of him and turn scaly tail. The lizard was apparently not as dumb as he initially came across.

As the hours rolled on, his hunger returned, causing his stomach to grumble in protest. He really ought to eat. He’d never hear the end of it if he passed out during the fieldtrip tomorrow. There wasn’t much waiting for him in his room, and now that he was calmer, he regretted wasting his money on soup he’d never eat. He wasn’t swimming in septims anymore. Pushing open the door to the dorms slowly so as not to make any noise, he tip-toed inside. Aethereus help him if he ran into the other apprentices. Only once he was safe within the confines of his room did he light a candle.

Much to his shock, there was a bowl of soup sitting on his table, and on someone else’s handkerchief, a boiled crème treat. Yves couldn’t help it; his first reaction was to snort. Was this supposed to be an apology for their words behind his back? The soup was COLD for Mara’s sake! He glared at it for several seconds before his stomach growled again. Damn, he was too hungry to be turning down peace offerings, even if they were most likely for show only. Cold soup was still better than no soup. As he sat down to eat, he wondered how they’d react to him in the morning. He wasn’t entirely sure how he himself would react.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Yves made it a point to be exactly on time to the college gate rather than early. It went against his normal habits, but he didn’t want to end up standing around waiting with his colleagues. He only worried they’d joke about him oversleeping again. “Ah, good morning Yves. That’s everyone, then. Let’s head out to Saarthal, shall we?” Tolfdir declared brightly, beginning to walk across the bridge. His pupils fell in line single-file as they crossed the narrow path, not willing to sacrifice focus for small-talk. Only after they’d exited the still-sleeping town of Winterhold and hit the vast white tundra did any of the students dare to speak. Yves wasn’t surprised that the first one to do so was the Dunmer girl.

“You know, I realize we never did properly introduce ourselves, and we didn’t see you in class much yesterday,” she attempted. It sounded forced. “My name is Brelyna. I came from Morrowind to study here at the college, especially in Conjuration. Your name is Yves, right?”

“Yes. And, I should thank you for bringing me my soup last night.” He couldn’t help but leave the bait, just to make them squirm a bit. Being last in the line, he had a good view of it.

“Well, ah, it was the least I could do.” So she didn’t deny she’d been the one. Yves had a strong feeling that of the three she was the most agreeable. “I’m only sorry it was cold. When we get back from our trip, you should join us at the inn. I’ll buy you a fresh bowl to make up for it.”

He couldn’t decide whether eating with the others was worth a free bowl of soup, but he’d go with it for now at least. “I would like that. And the others? Who are they? I believe you may have mentioned their names that first morning, but I was admittedly out of it at the time…” Another not-so-subtle reminder of his annoyance.

When their answers were not immediately forthcoming, Brelyna cleared her throat expectantly. Finally, the Nord responded, albeit with great hesitation. “Onmund. From over in Whiterun hold. Left as soon as I could so I could be around people who actually appreciate magic. I doubt you know the feeling.”

“Can’t say that I do, no.”

Once he trailed into silence, the final member added “J’Zargo. The Arcane University is a political mess, so J’Zargo traveled further north. Here, he can become the greatest.”

Yves fought the urge to comment on how unlikely that would be, unless this J’Zargo was training to be the greatest thief. Luckily, before he could say something snide, Tolfdir jumped into their conversation. “Yves, I don’t believe you ever mentioned where you were from, did you?”

Well, that was enough to still his tongue. He shook his head, desperately trying to figure out what he was willing to reveal. “High Rock,” he finally replied. There was no point in pretending otherwise; he’d only be caught in a trap of his own making.

“You came all the way out here from High Rock? Home to some of the greatest spellcasters in Tamriel?” Yves could hear the surprise in the old teacher’s voice, and he saw as a result the way his colleagues tilted their heads in order to hear his response properly over the howling wind. It was a strange scenario, to be fair. Still, he refused to humor them while pulling his hood tighter.

“Yes.”

When it was apparent he wouldn’t add any more, J’Zargo dryly noted “Yves is a man of few words.”

“Then I suppose his actions will have to do the talking,” Onmund replied, giving the observation a decidedly pointed tone. As if it were a dare.

“I suppose so.” And he would. Soon, as his spells came back, he’d blow them all out of the water. They’d see just who they were mocking.

Tolfdir sensed none of the thinly-veiled antagonism. He simply began to deliver a lecture on Saarthal’s history as the scaffolding down to the ruin came into view over a snow-crested bank. For being such an elderly man, it was impressive how he could elaborate on the Night of Tears and trek across the uneven terrain without sounding even the slightest bit breathless. In all honesty, Yves was having a hard time keeping up with the others despite his new, properly-fitted boots.

After what felt like an endless hike, they were down the ramps and to the entrance to the excavation site, finally out of the freezing wind from the coast. As he pushed the doors open, Tolfdir didn’t miss a beat. “This is an exciting opportunity for us. To be able to study such an early civilization, and the magicks they used… Of course, we are particularly interested in their wards. Few sites exist in Skyrim with such wards intact, making Saarthal extremely valuable to both historians in search of untouched relics and researchers of the magic itself. Most scholars suppose the taboo on these ruins after the Night of Tears is the reason for this abnormality. Arniel Gane, one of our resident researchers, has already begun cataloguing enchanted items recovered from these ruins for further study…”

“Not from the tombs!” Onmund exclaimed in undisguised horror.

“No, no, I can assure you the tombs have been left undisturbed. Saarthal was an entire city, mind you. Plenty of other areas to explore and learn from.” Yves saw Onmund’s shoulders relax in relief, though he had to wonder if Tolfdir was simply saying things to ease his mind. Why, perhaps Tolfdir didn’t even know the full extent of what the others were doing here. The apparent oversight with Ilas-Tei made that seem entirely possible. Either way, it was foolish for the boy to be so easily assuaged.

By now, the small group was entering the gloom and beginning the slow descent down more wooden ramps. Yves did not like the way they groaned under the weight of so many bodies. “We will be assisting Arniel in retrieving any suspect items. A scavenger hunt will be just the thing to hone keen eyes, crucial for your studies. Of course, I dare say using your own observations will tell you more about the early Nords than anything I could ever tell you. If you find anything, the class can look it over together and draw conclusions as a group.” Tolfdir ducked into a shadowy chamber off the main hall. “Arniel, I’m here with the apprentices.”

“Just make sure they don’t break anything,” a voice from within grumbled. When he came into view, Yves could see that he was bent over a table going through research notes in the dim light of a lantern, which also reflected off his overtly bald head.

“Wonderful! All right students, time to get to work! I’ll remain back here with Arniel while you search this area.”

Wasting little time, Onmund and Brelyna both cast candlelight and broke off in opposite directions. J’Zargo simply eyed him curiously. “Aren’t you going to cast a candlelight?”

He’d love to if he could, but at the current moment that spell, simple as it was, still eluded him. J’Zargo did not need to know that. “No need, I can see just fine.”

“Khajiit have eyes that see well in the dark, but I do not believe yours are as good as you say…”

Yves pushed on ahead, ignoring his companion. It was hard to see, honestly. He’d be lucky not to trip, much less find anything. Wiping out would just give the others even more reason to mock him. He made a mental note to get to work on relearning candlelight as soon as possible.

Perhaps it was fate, or simply dumb luck, but as he hit the end of a corridor, an artifact was blatantly displayed, dangling from a wall pedestal and casting a dull gleam in the flickering torchlight. As Yves leaned closer to inspect it, he noted that the tarnished bronze was covered in glyphs. How had the people placing the torches missed something so obvious? Then again… 

“Find something already, Yves?”

He nearly jumped out of his skin. Damn Khajiit for being so light on their feet. “Perhaps…”

“Oooh, a lovely trinket…” J’Zargo reached out to grab it.

Before he could stop him, reminding him about the probable traps protecting such an interesting relic, the amulet was in J’Zargo’s hands and the sound of scraping metal could be heard. He whipped around to find they were fenced in by raised metal bars.

“Oops.”

Yves glared. “You’ve gotten us trapped, and all you can say is ‘oops’?” How tempting it was to just freeze that idiot solid. If he could have with a look alone, there would be no stopping it. This is why people were a pain.

Stuck in a Nordic ruin with J’Zargo; could this be any worse?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd say cliff-hanger, but we all know how this is going to go.


	8. Firebolt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Into Saarthal we go, and all the tension comes to a head. Tolfdir is so done with this garbage...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha ha, I left Yves trapped with J'Zargo for a very long time :) Feels good to finally get this finished and posted.

“You’re catching on quickly, Laurent!” Yves observed, watching his younger brother destroy target after target with perfectly aimed firebolts out in the yard. When it came to magic, it was rare that he got to offer those words to his sibling, so he made sure to bring it up this time. Perhaps with proper encouragement he’d reveal himself to be a late-bloomer.

Laurent made a sour face at his brother’s compliment. “It’s the ONLY spell I’ve ever done as well as you.” Another loud shatter as he destroyed the next clay target in line with unrivaled precision. “Possibly better.”

“And three years earlier than me. I really don’t understand destruction spells or why we need them. They keep insisting I learn them, though.” He leaned against the garden wall. 

“Don’t give me that. You’re not bad at anything related to magic!” Laurent snorted, polishing off the final target. “It just wasn’t as easy.”

“A fair assessment.”

In the pause, Laurent seemed to consider something. Slowly, a smirk crossed his face, and his blue eyes sparkled with mischief. It was a look he’d become infamous for in the Montclair household. “Hey Yves, want to have a friendly competition? See who can hit the most targets?” No doubt the boy was eager to outmatch his over-achieving, do-no-wrong elder brother at something for once. He did not doubt Laurent would win such a challenge given his own struggles with aiming, and he honestly didn’t mind giving credit where credit was due. In fact, he actually wanted to build up his brother in such a way. It was a pity he’d have to decline.

Yves held up his hands. “You know that magic is an art or a means of self-defense, it isn’t for competing. Someone is going to get hurt if it is used recklessly.”

Laurent’s face darkened, and he turned away with his arms crossed. “As usual, you’re no fun. You listen to Father way too much, especially considering how little time he actually spends with us.”

“I imagine he didn’t get to be the head of the family without knowing what he was doing…”

“He’s the head of the family by luck of birth. Someone further back got us where we are, and those that came after just cling to it.”

“Laurent…” Yves could understand why his brother was quick to speak ill of their father. The two rarely got along; their personalities were like night and day. Understanding it didn’t make it right, though. Laurent would get himself into trouble if he wasn’t careful.

“Hmph. There’s only so much timing myself that I can stand. I need to find some way to make this more exciting.” He turned to go, leaving the shards of his targets for the servants to pick up.

“How about you work on a new spell?” Yves suggested, brow furrowed with worry. He just knew in his bones Laurent was going to do something stupid, something to cause trouble. “There are so many…”

“Alteration and Illusion are no fun without people to prank. Restoration is useful, but boring. And no matter what I do, I can’t get the hang of Conjuration. You have fun, though.”

Yves sighed as he watched Laurent march away. The boy had a peculiar need for a thrill. Unlike him, he was not content to sit and read and fine-tune details. Funny that they were related at all.

Later that evening, Yves could hear his father screaming at Laurent from across the manor. Turned out he’d gone and organized a competition with some of the neighboring youths to see who could destroy the most targets, and their father was less than thrilled that his son had “cheapened” magic by putting on exhibitions. Made the Montclairs look like fools, he said, or rather yelled. It didn’t help matters that one of the other competitors had started a tree on fire with an errant shot. His father was fearsome when enraged, and Yves felt a bit bad for Laurent to be on the receiving end, but he HAD warned him: play with fire magic and get burned.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Play with ancient Nord relics and get trapped, Yves thought grimly as he considered how he would get out of this mess. Spending too long cooped up with J’Zargo would drive him mad. “Maybe if I’m lucky I can melt these bars…”

J’Zargo waved dismissively. “It’s not like we are alone here. We’ll just get someone else to find the reverse switch. These things always have a reverse switch.” He cleared his throat. “Tolfdir, we have a slight problem over here…”

True to his word, quick footsteps could be heard approaching the pair. Tolfdir rounded the corner and blinked in surprise at the sight of them. “How in the world did that happen?”

“J’Zargo took an amulet from a pedestal without checking for traps first,” Yves informed him crossly.

“Really? Perhaps the amulet is important somehow. Is there any way you can use it?”

Yves snatched the amulet from J’Zargo’s hands before he could do any more damage. “Give me that!” He was so busy being upset that he was unprepared for the wave of resonance to crash over him as soon as he had the amulet in hand. Had the Khajiit not felt this? It was so powerful, and so clearly stemmed from the pedestal where the amulet had been taken. It seemed to have a sort of pull, as if urging for a blast of magic. On instinct, Yves conjured up his fireball, recently rediscovered, and launched a blast dead center. The wall behind the pedestal crumbled, revealing a hidden passage.

“Hmm, more treasure?” J’Zargo purred, tail flicking in interest.

“Goodness, what do we have here? A new corner of the ruins, sealed off by a ward? Ho ho, exactly what we’d been hoping to find! Brelyna, Onmund, come over here!”

With all the clamor, Yves was just grateful that the trap had been reset. He carefully tucked the amulet away in his pouch for safe-keeping. “Will you want me to do a write-up on this amulet-sealed ward, Master Tolfdir?”

“A new section of ruins opens up, and all you can think of is a report!? What is wrong with you?”

That would hurt more if he hadn’t heard it all before. “Research was why we came here!”

“If the explosion wasn’t enough to send us running, we’d find you two from the sound of your arguing.” The pair looked up to find Brelyna, followed closely by Onmund. “I see you two got to have all the fun.”

“The fun is just beginning,” Tolfdir corrected, walking past Yves and J’Zargo to peer into the dark passageway. He quickly cast a candlelight to illuminate the path ahead. “We should all stick together; no telling what we’ll find in here. Everyone stay behind me, if you please.” Onward he went, followed quickly by J’Zargo. Yves hesitated, not at all thrilled about venturing into unknown parts of Nordic ruins. If that trap had still been active, it was likely there were many more just waiting to spring, not to mention the stories he’d heard about draugr. In his pause, Onmund pushed ahead. He quickly decided that if he was going to have to go, he didn’t want to be at the end of the line where he could be picked off. Without thinking, he cut in front of Brelyna.

“Hmph, ladies first,” he heard her mutter behind him. 

“I, ah, I apologize,” he mumbled, trying to keep up to the candlelight in front of him. He was grateful to Brelyna for casting another behind him. “That was rude. Would you like to trade spots? Leaving a woman to guard the rear is in poor taste.”

Brelyna just laughed incredulously. “You apologize with an insult, huh? Besides, it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve been rude, just the first time you’ve apologized for it.”

Yves was grateful that Brelyna couldn’t see his face, and that Onmund couldn’t turn his head to watch with the smug grin he imagined he was wearing lest he run into something. “Excuse me?”

“From the moment you wouldn’t even shake Ilas-Tei’s hand.”

Before he could counter, he crashed into Onmund, who had stopped dead in his tracks. He didn’t doubt Onmund had some choice words for this mishap, but Tolfdir was speaking. “What is this place? Why seal it away?” The rest of them filled the room, and to their surprise, it looked like a dead-end. No treasure, no wards, nothing.

Without warning, Yves’s vision went blurry, and some kind of ambient sound filled his ears, similar to being submerged in water. A voice that didn’t belong to any of his companions seemed to flood his mind. “Hold, mage, and listen well.” From out of thin air, the form of what appeared to be a Psijic monk popped up before his eyes. At least he was fairly certain it was a Psijic monk. Master Comtois had told him tales of their order, and he’d seen illustrations of their robes in the books in his father’s library. Their entire group had disappeared from Tamriel for countless years now, so how could this be?

The Altmer before him simply continued speaking, ignorant of all of his questions. “Know that you have set in motion a chain of events which cannot be stopped. Judgement has not been passed, as you had no way of knowing. Judgement will be passed on your actions to come, and how you deal with the dangers ahead of you. This warning is passed to you because the Psijic Order believes in you. You, mage, and you alone have the potential to prevent disaster. Take great care, and know that the Order is watching.” Without any clear explanation, the vision suddenly disappeared. The blur in his sight and the dim background noise did as well. 

“I-I swear I felt something strange just then.” Tolfdir’s voice cut through clearly, sounding extremely puzzled.

“You mean that apparition of a Psijic monk?” Yves offered as he rubbed his eyes. “That was certainly strange.”

Tolfdir’s eyebrows shot up. “A Psijic monk?”

“What does that even mean?” Onmund demanded. “Besides, there was nothing there, just a magical pulse.”

“You didn’t hear him? See him?”

Tolfdir shook his head. “They haven’t been seen in centuries. They certainly have no connection to these ruins. Are you quite certain?”

Now Yves was just indignant. “I know what I saw. Besides, he explicitly stated his affiliation in that one-sided conversation.”

“He SPOKE to you?” J’Zargo frowned in disbelief.

“And guess what he said? Danger ahead! Not that you’d pay that any mind. That’s probably why he spoke to me and not you!”

Even Tolfdir might not have been able to stop the fight about to break out, but the axe-wielding draugr that suddenly popped out of the coffins did the trick. They could do that?! His heart nearly beat right out of his chest as he took a step back.

Battle revealed much about a person’s inner character. This he had been taught in his studies of duel techniques, though he never paid it much mind at the time. For whatever reason, despite there being far more important things to worry about with his life on the line, it came back to him now. He observed, for example, the way that Tolfdir didn’t even bat an eye as he summoned flames, his years of experience creating a calm demeanor in the face of danger. J’zargo also summoned flames, but the twitching of his tail and the feral grin on his face gave a far different vibe. He relished the chance to wield his power, came alive with his life on the line. Brelyna, in contrast to the other two, chose to summon a flame atronach, putting some distance between herself and the enemy while still playing to the draugr’s weakness to fire. He could appreciate that approach. She also kept her cool, something he did not expect from a novice.

That left Onmund. The Nord locked up entirely. Yves didn’t even get a read on any magicka flaring in his body, he was so petrified. For all his high and mighty talk, this was how he acted in crisis? A draugr took notice of a target far more vulnerable than the three engaging it, and broke away to attack. Before the others could step up to defend him, Yves was ready. “Ignus fusila!”

Admittedly, his aim still wasn’t perfect. The firebolt clipped the left side of the draugr, but it was enough to stagger it and give Onmund an opening to fall back. With him out of the way, Yves felt far more comfortable launching his second firebolt, which nailed it in the chest. The glowing blue light in its eyes faded as it crumpled to the ground. He quickly noted that the other two draugr had met similar fates at the hands of his colleagues. The danger was past.

“Impressive work, students,” Tolfdir nodded. “You all chose the element that draugr are weak to without a moment’s hesitation.”

Truthfully, firebolt was the ONLY spell Yves had for a ranged attack, but he did know about the weakness factor. He wasn’t sure whether his colleagues had simply gotten lucky or not. There was one thing he did know. “Except for Onmund.”

If looks could kill, Yves would be dead on the spot. Before Onmund could defend himself, Brelyna did so for him. “Mind your own business! By Azura, what gives you the right to behave like such an asshole?”

“I am simply pointing out a fact,” Yves stiffened, feeling the confrontation that had been festering was about to boil over. He’d still keep his dignity. “If Onmund cannot react when in danger, he should go back to help with the cataloguing. He will only get himself killed, besides putting us at risk as we try to compensate for his hesitation.”

“We should all go back!” Onmund shouted, stepping up to Yves and getting in his face. He had to look down several inches at the shorter Breton. “These are clearly catacombs, and we do not belong here, research or no!”

“Is that why you wouldn’t attack? You were uncomfortable fighting your dead ancestors? Divines, they are already dead; killing them again won’t matter! It’s better than you getting killed!”

“Maybe you are the one that should go back, Mr. Superiority Complex,” J’Zargo interjected, snarling. “You might be able to throw a fireball, but you can’t even cast such a simple spell as a candlelight!”

“You have no idea what you are talking about!” Damn, he hoped against hope that J’Zargo would not demand he demonstrate it to prove himself; he had the sneaking suspicion that in these circumstances he would surely fail.

“J’Zargo can read body language; you claimed to see fine in the dark, but you were tense and cautious so as not to fall. You needed it to see, but wouldn’t summon it. Why would you not unless you couldn’t?”

“Wouldn’t that hurt your fragile ego? Can’t even cast candlelight, a novice spell?” Onmund taunted with a sneer.

By now Yves had gone positively rigid. “Last time I checked, candlelight didn’t save your life a minute ago when you couldn’t even move!”

“ENOUGH!”

Tolfdir’s usually cheerful voice echoed in the stone chamber, gaining the desired silence through the element of surprise, paired with a great deal of shame in the students. To have pushed this easy-going man to such a point did not feel good. “I don’t know what has gotten into you students, but this cannot continue. We are in the middle of an excavation fraught with peril, and your bickering is endangering all of you, not just Onmund! I can see that when we return to the College, I will need to sit down with each of you and straighten out this entire mess. For now…” He frowned, looking to the sarcophagus that had opened during the onslaught, revealing a passage forward. “Onmund, I had no idea this would lead to crypts. We will, of course, fight any draugr that reanimate as we explore, but I swear on my honor that we will remove nothing unless it has extreme academic value. You should go back to Arniel Gane and report what we have discovered.”

Yves could do little to fight the pleased smile creeping at the corners of his mouth. Tolfdir agreed with his judgment, as his teachers usually did. As soon as it manifested, the smile disappeared in an instant with Tolfdir’s next words. “Do not look so pleased with yourself, Yves. You may have a good judgement of the situation, but your skills in tact leave much to be desired. We will be discussing this in length later.” Now, it was the others that were fighting back smiles as he was shamed. “Now, can you all manage to set aside your differences for a little while longer, or should I send you all back with Onmund and go ahead on my own?”

There was an exchange of sideways glances, wary and skeptical. “We will follow your lead, Master Tolfdir,” Brelyna confirmed, the first to speak up as usual.

“Very well then. I will hold you to it. The moment you act out again, you will be sent back. I will not tolerate this kind of childish behavior from fully-grown adults!” With that said, Tolfdir cast a candlelight spell and lead the way forward. Brelyna and J’Zargo quickly followed behind, leaving Onmund and Yves. They shared one last glare before going their separate ways.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Once the initial shock of active draugr wore off, very little surprised the party. They were on high alert as they passed through the ruins, taking out the guardians as they arose. Yves prayed that his companions didn’t notice how off-center his firebolt shots were; moving targets were much more difficult to deal with than stationary ones. If they did, they said nothing, as Tolfdir had commanded. In relative silence they checked chests searching for anything unusual, but found nothing matching whatever criteria Tolfdir had laid out. It must have left J’Zargo positively beside himself to walk away from all the loot that they were leaving behind as a promise to Onmund. On occasion, they would stumble across an intact rune trap, which Tolfdir would quickly sketch before allowing them to disable it and pass. That was to say nothing of the physical traps. J’Zargo’s cat eyes proved useful in this matter, catching pressure plates in the dim light and warning them in advance.

The further they went, the stronger the pull on Yves became. He had no idea what it was, other than it was magical in nature. Did it have something to do with the amulet he still held in his possession? It did mimic the feeling he’d gotten when pulling it from the pedestal. He wondered if his unease showed on his face, though again, nothing was mentioned.

At last, as they approached a heavy set of iron doors, he could bear it no longer. “Something is behind that door,” he mumbled, clutching his head. It was becoming overwhelming.

“Do you feel something?” Tolfdir wondered, staying his hand.

“Is it just me? No one else feels it?”

Brelyna and J’zargo shook their heads. Tolfdir just tilted his own. “Slightly, yes. Whatever it is, it is well contained. I thought it was still a ways in, but perhaps you are more sensitive than I.”

“I wonder if it has to do with that amulet I grabbed back at the start of the passage.”

“Interesting thought. If it was acting as part of a seal, that may very well be. In any case, we should all be prepared for what we find on the other side. Are you all ready?”

“Yes sir,” the three responded dutifully.

“Good. Then let’s see what we can see.”

The doors creaked open, and much to their shock, there was a giant glowing orb floating in a vortex of magicka. The power fairly raged like a waterspout. Yves noticed the others recoil as they felt the true extent of that power for the first time. Then, he turned his gaze to the foreground to check for traps. What he saw was concerning. “This draugr is different,” he muttered. Unconsciously, he tensed as the ripple of nerves turned his stomach. “Some kind of protective cloaking spell. As he is, we won’t leave a scratch.”

“I don’t believe it…” Tolfdir squinted. “That’s because this was no ordinary person in life. I’d read that Jyrik Gauldurson was sealed away somewhere in Saarthal, and it seems we have found where.”

“Who?”

“Ah, Onmund would probably have known if he were here. It is an old Nord tale of three brothers, immensely talented and also terribly wicked. They had to be sealed away and their powers separated to keep it manageable.”

“Lovely,” Yves moaned, rubbing his forehead. “We broke the seal that kept him locked up.”

“Does it have something to do with this orb?” Brelyna considered thoughtfully.

“That I couldn’t say. Whatever it is, it is incredible. First things first though, we must put down Jyrik. I will draw out his protective field so you three can attack. Work together, and we shouldn’t have a problem.”

With that, Tolfdir was descending the stairs, his apprentices hurrying to keep up. “Just do what you always do,” J’Zargo hissed under his breath. “Brelyna, keep your atronach in his face to distract him. If the atronach goes down, no big deal. I’ll get in with the flames in his blind spots. Yves can just hide in a corner and launch a fireball or two when he feels comfortable. He won’t hit anywhere important, but it should at least distract the draugr…”

They had noticed after all. He could feel anger igniting once again. In fact, it became so strong that it overwhelmed his sense of self-preservation. “You can step back, unless you like getting your fur singed.” He conjured up Canis, quickly sending forth his familiar to distract Jyrik, fireballs at the ready. The instant Tolfdir lifted the invulnerability spell, he was throwing fire. Not to be outdone, J’Zargo joined in, abandoning his flames from the blind spot in favor of an all-out pummeling. Half the time, they needed to throw up wards just to spare each other from their ally’s attack.

“What happened to the plan?” Brelyna wailed as she summoned her flame atronach to contribute. “Ugh, men!”

One way or another, they brought down the infamous wizard in time. Yves couldn’t help but worry though, as the flames that lit up old linen wraps slowly burned down, that this had been more competition than survival. Wouldn’t Laurent be proud of him if he could see him now? The thought filled his mouth with a bitter taste. Why did it seem like every step of the way, he stumbled into a pitfall, something he’d promised himself in his youth that he would never fall victim to? Apparently, those were ideals for ideal times. The real world outside of the Montclair estate was something else entirely.

“You two idiots!” Brelyna began, for once chastising both Yves and J’Zargo equally.

She was cut off by Tolfdir. “This is amazing, simply amazing! Come over here at once.” Yves hurried to obey without hesitation. Brelyna let out a huff of annoyance at the fact that her lecture was cut off, but joined him. J’Zargo let his eyes dart both ways, and once he was certain no one was looking, he reached for the amulet fragment around Jyrik’s neck and slipped it into his pockets. Only then did he follow.

“I’ve never seen anything like this before! I don’t dare leave it unattended. You three, take Onmund and report back to the college. Someone needs to tell the Arch-Mage about this.” He stopped, contemplating something for a moment. “Come to think of it, Yves should be the one to report in. Then, he can explain what he saw about the Psiijics. Perhaps Savos Aren would know more. Can you four make it back to the college on your own?”

“Yes, sir.” 

They’d make it safely, but it would be a long, awkward hike back with Yves straggling behind the others. He had to wonder if Brelyna was going to withdraw her offer of a fresh bowl of soup…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like the entire plot of this story is going to be "how not to be a jerk". Like seriously, he might not even get around to dealing with the literal villains until a second installment at this rate. I have so much fun with this character though...


	9. Healing Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Tolfdir is away, the apprentices are given their next task: find the missing apprentices from Ilas-Tei's class. This proves to be a huge hurdle, and not in the ways Yves expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've just got to point out that I am a teacher by trade, and seeing the way the College of Winterhold was run in the game was appalling to me. If I seem critical of Savos Aren, well, most of what I included for dialogue either came directly from the game or was set with a similar tone. How do you freaking lose an entire class of students???

It wasn’t that Yves hadn’t learned anything of the Restoration School by age 8; clearly, they had worked on wards, though that had brought its own set of challenges. He thought it strange, though, that Master Comtois never went into healing spells. Those seemed very practical, much more so than some of the destruction spells.

He finally worked up the nerve to ask one day as Master Comtois was getting settled in for another lesson. “Master, will we learn any healing spells soon?”

The old man frowned. “Healing spells are very difficult to train for those of high standing. It is a largely intuitive process, unless you want to see a lot of blood and gore up close. Most noble families refrain from formal training and gradually pick it up from readings to spare themselves the mess. Their success in learning the technique is rather hit-or-miss as a result. As for healing yourself, well, to know if it is working properly, you’d have to be injured somehow. That is not going to happen on my watch.” He cast a warning look. After working with the boy for over two years, he had come to learn that his pupil might just go too far in pursuit of knowledge, whether meaning to or not.

To his relief, Yves nodded in agreement. “Can you still explain the process to me so that if I need it I might figure it out?”

Master Comtois thought for a moment. “Will you promise me you won’t go getting injured on purpose just to test it out?”

Now the boy shook his head vigorously. “No way! I don’t want to get hurt!”

“Good. Then, I will show you both the healing spell and the healing hands spell. One is for yourself, and one is for others. You would think that would make them very similar, but in fact, they are fundamentally different. Healing is much easier; people want to feel better, to fix their injuries and ease their own suffering. It is much harder to focus on the spell when it is directed at someone else. You must have a sort of empathy, a desire to ease their pain even though it does not affect you. This is another reason why many people struggle to learn the healing arts; as you well know, going through the motions is not enough to successfully cast, and that spell requires some complex emotions. Though, perhaps…” The teacher studied his eager student, for what, the child couldn’t guess. “Maybe it would be easier for a child. Children are far less complicated than adults.” Yves had no idea what that was supposed to mean, but he quickly forgot as Comtois began teaching the basic signs and incantations.

He didn’t think of it again until two weeks later, when the sound of Laurent wailing caught his attention. It did not stop, not even after a minute or two. Yves dropped the book he was reading and hurried to see what was wrong. When he rounded the corner of the veranda, he saw his little brother clutching his scraped knee. It was actually a decent wound, and the blood was beginning to drip down his shin. What in the world had he gotten into this time?

“Laurent, what happened? Are you all right?” Yves knelt beside him, placing a comforting hand on his sibling’s head. 

He just shook his head and continued blubbering.

“Where is mother?”

“She went to get father!” Laurent managed. 

That could take some time given how large the estate was. No doubt his mother had done this because he was the only one in the house with any grasp of restoration magic, and calling a healer would be too time-consuming for a non-life-threatening injury. It seemed Laurent was not aware of this fact, because he kept crying as if his life were in danger. Yves could not stand to see him so miserable. “Just hold still and let me try something, okay? I will make you feel better.” Carefully, he wove the signs he had been taught, and murmured the incantation. Unlike in practice, he felt his hands start to warm, and saw a faint glow emitting from them. He really had no idea why it was working, but he wasn’t going to dwell on that when Laurent was in pain. He let his hands hover over the wound, and to his fascination, he saw the broken skin begin to heal itself shut. Within seconds, there was no sign of the injury save for the rivulet of blood.

Now, Laurent looked at him in wide-eyed wonder, a few stray tears trickling down his face. “You can make the hurt and blood go away?”

“I guess I can.” He shrugged. “I’m just glad you are okay now.

When Laurent threw himself at his brother for a hug, he accepted it with a smile.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV  
The first thing Yves did upon their arrival to the college was report to Mirabelle Ervine. That wasn’t part of his specific orders, but he thought it prudent to let the one who oversaw day-to-day affairs know what had happened. She thanked him, noting that Tolfdir wasn’t usually prone to flights of fancy, so this must be something important. As she walked away, she also mumbled to herself something about figuring out what to do with his apprentices while he was away.

The apprentices had long since abandoned him. In fact, they never even crossed the bridge together, seeing as they were going to get food at the inn. This had been shared in curt tones, no doubt delivered with the full expectation that he would not be joining them. His stomach had growled at the thought of a hot meal, but his discomfort with spending time with them outweighed his discomfort due to hunger at that point. No sense in torturing himself when he was clearly unwanted.

That left him cautiously climbing the spiraling staircase to the Arch-Mage’s quarters. This was normally off limits, but Mirabelle had given him permission to intrude on this private area in order to deliver his news. When he reached the top, he knocked on the door politely. “Arch-Mage, I’ve been asked to deliver a report to you.”

“Enter.”

Truth be told, he had no idea who the Arch-Mage even was. Not once had he made an appearance, no doubt busy with affairs related to his station. Yves was not expecting him to be a Dunmer though. Wouldn’t a Nord be in charge of a college in Skyrim? Or at least a human? Small wonder the college had such a low estimation in the eyes of the locals. It took all his effort to keep his features schooled as he approached, thankful for the many years of practice locking away his feelings in the midst of social situations. 

The Arch-Mage was seated along the side of the spacious chamber, reading some tome in a chair and sipping wine. By Julianos, he could see himself living this kind of life. Even the furnishings of the room lent themselves to his particular tastes, classy as they were. Several shelves of books, enchanting table, alchemy table, glazed tiles on the floor and tapestries on the wall… It reminded him of home, albeit without the random garden in the center and the stone walls that still screamed dungeon. If only everyone got rooms like this…

“So, what news do you bring me?” The Arch-Mage set down his goblet after taking one last sip. His blood-red eyes upon him were unsettling.

“I’ve just returned from Saarthal. Tolfdir asked me to pass along a message, sir.”

“Sir…how quaint.” Then he sighed. “Please don’t tell me another one of the apprentices has been incinerated. I have enough to deal with right now…”

Yves blinked. Did that happen often? Magnus, what kind of school was this man running? He forced himself to ignore those implications and continue. “We uncovered a new section of ruins, sealed by this amulet.” He pulled the amulet in question from his pockets, offering it to the Arch-Mage for examination. He turned it over in his dark-skinned hands as Yves continued. “At the end of the passage, there was some kind of orb, one that held an immense power. Tolfdir wishes for you to come and see it for yourself.”

The Arch-Mage sighed again. Yves was getting the impression that everything was a bother to this man. “Very well. I trust you wouldn’t be here if it were not significant. I will go and look into it as soon as I’m able.” He turned his attention back to the book he was reading.

“One more thing happened, actually,” he added hurriedly before losing the Arch-Mage’s attention outright. “While inside the ruins, there was an apparition of a Psijic monk.”

The Arch-Mage looked up with a frown. “I was just an apprentice when they disappeared from Tamriel, over a hundred years ago. There’s no way they would have any connection to some ancient Nordic ruins. It must have been a trick of a magicka flare. Were you the only witness?”

His heart sank. Why was it that no one would believe him? Admittedly, it was farfetched, but the voice had been so clear! “I was. But, Tolfdir and the others felt something…”  
The Arch-Mage waved dismissively. “Don’t dwell on it, I’m sure it was nothing. Perhaps some residual effect of that orb you found.”

“Have you ever heard of anything like it before?” Yves ventured.

“No. In fact…” The Dunmer tapped his chin thoughtfully. “If you are looking for something to do, why don’t you check with Urag in the Arcanaeum. See if he has any books on the subject.”

Yves was adept at reading between the lines. It was a crucial skill to Breton nobility. What The Arch-Mage was really saying was ‘leave me in peace’. Best not to annoy the head of the college. It was bad enough he’d annoyed all of his classmates. “Of course, sir.”

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

He never made it to the Arcanaeum. On his way to the opposite tower, he was stopped in the entrance hall by Mirabelle Ervine. “Ah, good, there you are. Come, I have a matter to discuss with you and your fellow apprentices.” She turned and began walking with long, crisp strides in the direction of the lecture hall, where he noticed not only the three from his class, but Ilas-Tei as well. Oh, this was going to be fun…

Once they were all assembled, Mirabelle cleared her throat. “Now, I believe you are all familiar with Ilas-Tei, correct?” Tolfdir’s students nodded, some more enthusiastically then others. “He belongs to the group of four apprentices a level above you, in Phinis Gestor’s care. Three days ago, they all went out to conduct individual experiments. Ilas-Tei has clearly returned, but the others have not, and this is worrisome. Tomorrow morning, while Tolfdir is occupied at Saarthal, I’d like you four to split up and search for them.”

So that was it. Based on how disastrous Ilas-Tei’s experiment had been, Yves had to wonder just what the others were up to and what kind of danger they put themselves in. Why in the world were they ever allowed to go out alone?

While Yves worried about this, J’Zargo had a far more pressing concern. “Mistress Ervine, how will we be splitting up?” Yves caught his gaze, and he knew exactly why that question was asked. The feeling was entirely mutual as they shared a scowl.

“Yes, about that. I’ve already given it some thought, based on my observations. Yisra was apparently going to a remote location without any landmarks, but Ilas-Tei spoke to her and knows roughly where she should be found. He will lead Onmund and J’Zargo.”

Yves snuck a glance at Brelyna, and noticed the way she bit her lip. Frustration. Perhaps if he offered to do it himself, she’d agree in order to be spared his presence. “Borvir and Rundil went together to a ruin just off the road between Winterhold and Windhelm, easily found. For that reason, I will only send Yves and Brelyna for those two. Both groups, when they find the other apprentices, should have them report back to the college at once.” Mirabelle rubbed her head wearily. “This entire situation of unsupervised independent study has been altogether unorthodox, and I have no intention of it repeating. That goes for Ilas-Tei as well as you from Tolfdir’s group. Do you understand?”

“Of course, ma’am,” Yves was quick to agree. The others, less so.

“Good. You leave at sunrise.”

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

“You know, you don’t have to come with me if you’d rather stay behind. I realize my presence does not thrill you,” Yves offered as Brelyna warily joined him at the gate. The other team had yet to assemble, the slackers. Every minute wasted could be the difference between life and death! At least Brelyna seemed to understand the situation and treated it accordingly.

Despite what he viewed as being reasonable, she scowled at him and pulled her hood tighter. “I imagine you’d enjoy going alone. In any case, I intend to do what Mistress Ervine requests. You of all people should appreciate that sort of rule-following.”

“I do,” he agreed, brushing past the accusation. “I’m glad she had the foresight to pair me with you for that reason. You, of all the other apprentices, will at least take this seriously.” He began to walk, leading for once instead of following, though it was mostly so he wouldn’t have to look at Brelyna. Those damn Dunmer eyes always looked angry, and combined with the fact that she probably WAS angry… Not an encouraging sight.

“Do you really think something went wrong?” Her voice to his back sounded skeptical even as the wind on the bridge carried it away.

“Let me phrase it this way: Did Ilas-Tei ever explain to you what he was doing when I found him?”

He could just imagine the way she was scowling. Her comments in Saarthal revealed that she had been talking to Ilas-Tei after his return, but he had to wonder just what the lizard had admitted. “He was working on calm spells, and when you stumbled upon him, you helped him with his unruly skeevers.”

“The ‘unruly skeevers’ were going to tear him to pieces because he’d accidentally cast a fury spell on them instead of a calm spell! A few seconds longer and he’d have lost his grip on the overhang and fallen to his death! It was incredibly lucky that I was on the beach practicing and heard him shouting way out there on the ice floes, or he would never have made it back to the college. That is not an exaggeration. So, do I think something has gone wrong with the other apprentices? By Magnus, without a doubt.”

They fell into silence as they passed through the town. Other than the patrolling guards, no one was out yet in the early morning light. Both mages seemed to intuit that disrupting the peace would make them even less popular with the locals than they already were. Finally, once they exited the town on the main road, Brelyna admitted “He never told me those details. Though, I can see why he wouldn’t want to.”

“Not his finest moment, no question. I just…” He inhaled deeply, but the frigid, dry air assailed his nose instead of calming him. “Learning magic takes the help of someone knowledgeable to guide you. I mean, one could certainly try on their own, but at a great risk, and many times with disastrous results. This isn’t knitting; if you make a mistake when playing with the forces of Aethereus, there can be serious consequences for not only you, but the people around you. To send apprentices out on their own to experiment with magic is inconceivable! I don’t understand why I seem to be the only one who realizes it! Well, except for Master Tolfdir and Mistress Ervine. If it wasn’t for their level heads, I may have left by now. Even the Arch-Mage seems negligent.”

“That’s a pretty critical outlook, wouldn’t you say? We are not children, and we do not need babysitting. We have some knowledge of what we are dealing with. Sure, people will make some mistakes, and maybe they will get hurt, but living your life in fear the way you do? Trying to control everyone? That’s no way to live at all!”

“Better to live in caution than to die a fool!”

“HEEEEEEEELP!”

Their argument died in their throats as they strained their ears to find the direction of the cry. The snow was blinding white, but if he squinted, Yves could make out a mostly-buried ruin off the road. But wait, hadn’t Mirabelle said…

“Someone help!”

“Over there!” Brelyna pointed, quickly conjuring a flame atronach. Without hesitation, she charged ahead. “Hold on, I’m coming!”

Well, so much for stealth. Yves brought a firebolt to the ready as he dashed off behind her. Then again, perhaps he could go unnoticed and get a good shot in at whatever was causing the threat? It wasn’t going to make him very popular, what with the appeal of noble heroics, but it might just give them the edge. As he neared the barrow, he slowed to a sneak.

“What’s this, mage? Got a friend?”

The fireballs that followed rattled the area, and from the sounds of it, sent everything inside flying. Yves released his spell, opting for a different tactic. This space was too confined for fire; he may injure the people he was trying to protect. Quietly, he summoned Canis, then opted for frost instead. He snuck closer until he was able to peer around the corner and get a read of the situation.

The one who had called for help was, as he’d predicted, one of the apprentices they had been sent to find. He was lying on the floor, dazed, but with only a minor wound. Canis had a bandit pinned down, and judging by the pile of ashes, another one had been burnt to a crisp by the flame atronach, which must have been defeated in the process. One remained, however, and before his eyes, he saw that bandit take a vicious slash at Brelyna before she could react in the tight space. She screamed in pain as she crumpled.

Frost in each hand, he blasted the offender with all he had. Just as he’d been taught as a boy, the bandit’s motions slowed as the cold seeped into his body. When Canis finally dispersed, he changed focus so he was blasting each bandit separately. They struggled against it, pressing towards him with swords bared, but they were slowed enough that all he had to do was walk backwards as he continued to cast. Finally, just as he felt his magicka running out, they fell to the ground, dead.

Yves wasted no time. “Brelyna!” He rushed over to her side, crouching down. “You know a healing spell, don’t you?”

“Something is wrong,” she gasped, still clutching her side. “The sword…I think it had a magicka poison. I can’t…I can’t access my magicka!”

His pale face paled even further. He turned to the man on the ground. “You! You know the healing hands spell?”

“Well, yeah, but…” He gestured to his knife-wound helplessly. “Same poison. I’ve got nothing.”

“Healing potions then?”

This time, the man gestured to the room around them, and Yves noticed the fragments of glass littering the floor in pools of colored snow. All destroyed in the fight. Why in Arkay’s name had this fool left them sitting out?!

“Divines…” Yves clutched his head as his brain scrambled for another solution. Brelyna’s wound looked serious, and already her breathing was labored.

“What about you, Yves?” Her eyes were half open now, and she was barely able to lift her hand to point at him. “Surely you know healing hands, and they never touched you with those weapons.”

The words were innocent, he knew that, but they still hit him like a punch to the gut. His mouth went dry as he fumbled for the words. “Brelyna, I… I haven’t been able to cast that spell since I was a boy.”

Her brow furrowed. “What do you mean? That’s backwards!”

“No. The spell, I… I know how to cast it, I know the words and the gestures, but it won’t cast! I used to be able to, but there came a time when it just stopped working for me.” He wouldn’t admit it aloud, but in his heart, he knew why: he’d closed himself off to people as they’d hurt him, and so his connection to the spell was lost. Even if he had received training, it wouldn’t have done him any good. For the first time since arriving in Skyrim, his failure had nothing to do with Laurent’s treachery.

“Yves, are you…crying?”

Was he? He was beyond frustrated with himself for his ineptitude, and angry that Brelyna could very well die even though it wasn’t his fault. Angry at that stupid apprentice for putting them in this position, for causing her to get hurt while he remained relatively unscathed. Even if he ran to get help, given the way she was bleeding out, she’d never make it that long, to say nothing of the dangers they were surrounded by and helpless as they were. Ignoring her observation, he muttered the words and waved his hands in desperation, but nothing came. His hands remained as cold as his personality. He tried again, and again. Useless. He felt a tear fall at last.

“Hmph, and here I thought you were a know-it-all. Guess there are some things beyond your grasp too.”

“Candlelight,” he muttered, hanging his head in defeat. “J’zargo was right.”

“You know…I’m starting to think that if I knew more about you…I might be able to understand you.” Her eyes now drifted closed, and her words grew soft. “I never imagined it would end like this when I left home.”

“Don’t you have any potions?” the other mage finally interjected, looking horrified at the scene unfolding.

He unconsciously clenched his hands into fists. “I can’t afford to buy potions. And anything I make I have to sell to put food on the table! This isn’t how things were supposed to go at all!” Another tear fell, then another. “Watching people die, not being able to do anything about it! What good is all the magic I had?”

“Had?” she whispered, nose wrinkling in confusion even as she began to fade.

“Magnus, do you hear me? If I only get one spell back from here on out, give me Healing Hands!” He attempted the spell again, and still nothing. This only had him crying harder. Why should Magnus listen? His heart wasn’t in it, and the fact that it was specifically Brelyna who was dying didn’t matter. He was a selfish bastard who only wanted to ease his own suffering by saving her life. He could cast Healing but never Healing Hands.

Her words were barely audible, especially over his tears, but still they reached him. “You actually do care, don’t you? Just in your own weird way. I wish we could start over.”

For no conceivable reason, this triggered a spark. His hands began to glow. It was horrible and it was wrong, but apparently it took someone reaching for him before he could reach out to them. Whatever the case, he wasted no time. Just as he’d done so many years ago with Laurent, he marveled at the way skin began to regenerate under his hands. This was no scrape, and he had to pause several times to recover his magicka, but it was enough to keep her alive, albeit unconscious, and that was all he cared about.

Once the wound was finally sealed, he nearly collapsed from exhaustion. It wasn’t just his magicka stores that were taxed; the entire ordeal had been emotionally draining as well. Brushing any remaining moisture from his face, he finally turned his attention to the rogue apprentice. “Mirabelle Ervine says you are to return to the college immediately. Being out here alone is clearly foolish beyond measure, and if you still haven’t learned that, they ought to expel you on the spot.”

“Of course,” the man agreed sullenly. “I’ll just pull together whatever hasn’t been blasted by fireballs…”

“But wait. It occurs to me.” Yves squinted. “Weren’t there supposed to be TWO of you?”

“Ah. About that…” The apprentice rubbed the back of his head nervously. “My brother Rundil and I got into a huge fight. He ran off, somewhere to the north.”

Yves just stared. “You SPLIT UP. In the middle of a frozen wilderness? For the love of Mara, what is wrong with you people?!” He spun around, folding his arms behind his back, unable to even look at the apprentice without losing his temper further. “You will carry Brelyna. I will fend off any wolves on our way back to the college. Let’s get out of here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that wasn't too cliché. It got a bit more dramatic than I originally intended...


	10. Muffle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That muffle spell he taught himself as a boy comes in handy when the faculty have their meeting. Also, having the two dorms connect with an upper walkway is another plus for espionage...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm telling you right now, it will be really obvious who on the College's faculty I respect in canon Skyrim and who I do not. Feel free to disagree, but this is the approach I am taking. I like the complexity and realism it adds to the College's politics.

Perhaps Master Comtois thought teaching him the muffle spell was too much of a liability. After all, increasing the stealth of an adolescent was probably not a good idea in most cases, and the spell offered no foreseeable benefits to someone of his station, as nobles just hired spies instead of spying themselves. He had to know that wouldn’t stop Yves from learning it in his free time from the family library, though in that case he wouldn’t be responsible for any of Yves’ actions.

Learn it he did, with no one the wiser. No one ever paid attention to him, the good child of the two. He simply walked right into the library, pulled the book from the shelf, and set to work undisturbed for several hours. It certainly helped that unlike the time with the conjure familiar, he could actually read the text. “Sinsona” he whispered, after his study of the spell’s effects and its manner of function. At first, his jumping up and down was still audible, but as he worried about being heard, the sounds got softer and softer. Soon, he was stomping his feet in silence. There was no suppressing his grin of triumph.

The hardest part of gaining this knowledge was not sharing it with anyone else. He’d love to inform his master that he’d learned a spell on his own, apprentice level as it was, but if Comtois hadn’t taught him such an easy spell by this point, now that they were working on advanced spells, there was probably a reason he hadn’t. It would remain a trick to keep in his back pocket, pulling it out from time to time just to make sure he wasn’t losing the ability.

He finally put it to the test when Master Comtois declared he would be dismissing him early to have a meeting with the Montclair patriarch. The young man just nodded stoically, but internally his curiosity began to gnaw at him. Was it about him? What did his master think of his progress? No one ever gave him much feedback, they just kept moving forward with lessons. After Comtois entered the estate, Yves drew a deep breath, cast the muffle spell, and did perhaps the first disobedient thing of his life: he eavesdropped.

He crept up to the door of the study, wishing he knew the expert invisibility spell to go with the muffle spell. Not long, just long enough to know what this was about. Besides, the spell wouldn’t last forever, and he was not about to recast it in the quiet. That would be just as bad as the sound of a footstep on the tile floor.

“You wished to speak with me, Gregoire?”

“Yes, Master Montclair. It’s about Yves.”

“Yves? Has he finally hit a stumbling block in his studies?”

“No, sir, that’s just it. He’s thirteen now and working on spells few eighteen year olds can handle. I just… Ser, have you considered just how gifted your son truly is?”

There was a pause, and all Yves could hear was the roaring of blood in his ears as his face burned. Praise was a rare sound, and even if he was not being directly addressed, it had an impact.

“I think I knew from the moment he summoned a familiar as a five year old. He was different. Special. Tell me, Gregoire, how far do you think he can go?”

“In a year or two, further than I can teach, to be frank.”

“Oh, that is a shame. He does enjoy your lessons.”

“But you should really consider what will happen after that point. Will you send him to a university to study? With a gift like he has, it would be a shame to withhold him from the academic circles.”

“Out of the question. He’s needed here as the heir to Montclair estate.”

Comtois’s next words held a tone of hesitation. “What if being the heir is not the right plan for him? Not that I’m questioning your judgment, Ser, it is a personal matter and none of my business, I just worry… I mean, I’ve been working with the boy for over seven years now. It’s hard to imagine him managing an estate; all I can see is him surrounded by tomes and running experiments.”

His father gave a heavy sigh. “I don’t doubt that would be true, Gregoire, and I am not offended by your concern. But I have only two sons, and Laurent is... I can tell even now that he doesn’t have the temperament for leading the family. Yves is pragmatic, level-headed. I need him here…”

A wave coursed through his body, but it had nothing to do with his father’s words, terrifying as they were. The spell had worn off. He panicked, and did his best to whisper the words as softly as possible. “Sinsona.” He crept away with enough to process for several weeks after.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

“Sinsona.” He hadn’t tried this particular spell of his yet, but unlike with several other spells, the need to muffle his footsteps was strong, and his connection to silence was strong. With his increased magicka threshold from the trials of the last several weeks, he felt the veil of silence descend. He tapped a foot on the tile floor. Nothing. Perfect. Satisfied that it had worked, he opened the upper door to the Hall of Countenance and slipped inside.

They were meeting, all of the professors, Mirabelle, and the Arch-Mage. Part of that may be about the orb they had discovered in Saarthal, but he knew for sure most of it had to do with the events of the past 24 hours.

It began when he and Borvir, the missing apprentice, arrived back at the college, the Nord carrying Brelyna’s unconscious body in his powerful arms. Yves had immediately gone to Mirabelle, who he perceived to be the voice of reason. It was hard to describe all that had happened, but he focused on getting Brelyna proper help first. Mirabelle had sent for the professor of Restoration to inspect the girl and refine his rough healing job, doing her own inspection in the meantime. Much to his relief, the Master Wizard informed him that even though it was crude, it had been enough to stabilize her and that she would be fine with some extra treatment, lots of fluids to replenish the blood lost, and plenty of bedrest. Borvir brought her to her room in the Hall of Attainment so the professor could get to work.

Then, once she was taken care of, the grilling began. Borvir began his part of the story, explaining how he and his twin brother Rundil had been working on a new technique for flash-chilling mead (what a bone-headed Nord way to abuse magic!), gotten into an argument, and split up. All he knew was that his twin was to the north, and that didn’t leave a whole lot of area before hitting the Sea of Ghosts. Mirabelle sent the nearest professors to search for him and bring him back, clearly vexed by this turn of events. He could sympathize.

Yves then jumped in, demanding an answer to the question that bothered him the most: why had both bandits used magicka-damaging poison? The odds of that happening randomly was slim to none, as the stuff was expensive. They would have to know it was needed before attacking with weapons coated in the stuff. It was then that Borvir admitted that it wasn’t the first time he had been attacked by bandits. He and Rundil had driven one off, one that had realized he had bitten off more than he could chew by taking on the brothers. Perhaps he had gotten reinforcements and returned? Yves had nearly lost it then, shouting at the apprentice for his idiocy. It took Mirabelle’s authoritative voice to silence his frenzy. She demanded the rest of the details, and then they were sent to their rooms to wait for further instructions.

A few agonizing hours later, there was another commotion in the courtyard. The only thing Yves and Borvir could agree on up to this point was the need to investigate despite their orders. When Borvir in particular saw the professors lugging a frozen Rundil between them, there was no containing him. He ran forward with a cry of despair, all resentment from their argument vanishing in an instant. They said nothing to him, letting him grieve as he placed a hand on his immobilized and deathly-cold brother. Drevis Neloran, whom Yves had helped with the clearing of the magicka founts, explained that Rundil had been found surrounded by ice runes at his make-shift altar and had likely stepped onto one by mistake. 

To their surprise, Mirabelle summoned the professor of Restoration once more, even though she’d barely finished attending to Brelyna. Could she do something to unthaw a frozen person? The professor was unsure, but declared the situation an unusual one after looking him over carefully. A single frost rune or two would kill and nothing could be done, but there was evidence that he had in fact been flash-frozen by hitting several all at one. Perhaps his body didn’t have time to be damaged before freezing. She declared that while she did research into the matter, they would leave Rundil outside. Should he thaw before they were ready with restoration magic, it truly would be the end of him. Borvir thanked her profusely, tears shimmering in his eyes. It was not a promise, but it was at least a hope. Stranger things had happened in Tamriel after all.

And because all of that was not enough, the trio sent for Yisra returned even as they stood discussing Rundil. As soon as Ilas-Tei locked gazes with Mirabelle, he actually broke into tears. Yves had been unaware that was even possible for an Argonian. Yisra, he declared between sobs, was a charred corpse on the beach. Her practice with flame cloak spells had apparently gone terribly wrong, and the only thing left that let them know it was her remains was a melted necklace she’d always worn. It was impossible to read J’Zargo, but Onmund looked grim, unable to make eye contact with anyone as Ilas-Tei spoke. He did, however, ask once Ilas-Tei was done where Brelyna was. That left Yves having to explain their predicament for the second time that day.

By this point, Mirabelle had had enough, and if her rigid posture wasn’t enough of an indication, her sharp tone was. The professors would go and gather Yisra’s remains. The students needed to go to their dorms for the remainder of the day, no questions. She, the professors, and the Arch-Mage would discuss these events that evening. The students did as they were instructed. No one spoke to Yves once they retired to their dorms, but he heard Borvir and Ilas-Tei catching up, comforting each other over the loss of their classmate, and he heard Onmund and J’zargo as they stood over Brelyna fretting over her condition. What did it matter? He didn’t have anything kind to say at this point anyhow. Idiots, every last one of them.

Now, that evening had arrived. Below him, gathered on the second level of the Hall of Countenance where the professors resided, all the powers gathered. Well, all except one. They were still waiting on the Arch-Mage. 

“What in the world is all of this about?” Tolfdir asked, sounding confused. He had just gotten back from Saarthal, and it sounded like they simply informed him to attend this meeting at the gate. “Is this about what we discovered in Saarthal?”

“If only,” Drevis Neloren responded. “You missed quite the chaos today.”

“I haven’t seen the students since I returned. That’s not like them…”

“I’ll explain once Savos gets here,” Mirabelle interrupted. She still sounded stressed beyond belief. “It’s not a cheery topic, so I’d rather only do it once.”

“Oh dear…”

A door burst open further below. The footsteps could be heard on the stairwell where he was hiding. Not that he’d go all the way to the top, Yves was unworried about that much. “First I am informed that I need to hike all the way out to Saarthal, though yes, that orb was certainly a wonder. Then, I am informed I am needed back at the college less than 24 hours after leaving it? I hope this is important, Mirabelle.” There was a scraping of a chair on the tile floor as he presumable took a seat.

“Well, Savos, in the span of four days, a student had to be rescued from angry skeever test subjects while on independent study, a student was nearly killed by bandits while rescuing another student on independent study, a student has been flash frozen and Magnus only knows if he can be saved (may I add, while on an independent study), and, of course, another student was incinerated while on an independent study!”

“Oh by Azura! Wasn’t I just mentioning something similar to that new student just yesterday? We were due for another immolation…”

“This pattern is unacceptable!”

“What do you want me to say, Mirabelle? They were off school grounds.”

“And why was that? Phinis, care to elaborate why you let four apprentices go off and experiment on their own without any supervision?”

There was a grunt, and Yves could just imagine him shrugging his shoulders. “They didn’t come to the College for hand-holding. If they want to pursue their own studies, that’s on them. Like Savos says, if they choose to leave school grounds and do something reckless, we’re not responsible.”

“We are not here to hold hands, that is true, but we are here to teach! These were not academics and scholars already established in the field; these were apprentices! I can testify at least to the Ilas-Tei case. I saw him wander back with the new student looking positively sheepish, like he realized he’d done something foolish. They have no idea what they are dealing with half the time, I am convinced of it.” That voice sounded familiar… The gatekeeper?

“If I may,” Tolfdir interjected, still politely, “I have seen similar struggles with my new batch of apprentices. Only one of them has any respect for the forces they are working with, and I’ve struggled to make it clear to the others as well even in our few days together. It is clear to me that leaving them to their own devices is a terrible idea.”

“You say that as if we don’t have casualties every year,” Phinis argued, banging a fist on the table. “Some groups are bright, and others are more book-smart than common sense smart. We’ve clearly just hit a bunch of the latter. It’s unfortunate, but it’s a fact.”

“Does that mean we are only attracting buffoons, then?” Drevan mused. “Two cycles in a row. If that’s the case, something with our recruitment has gone terribly wrong…”

“We are not here to discuss recruitment policy! The College of Winterhold exists to study magicka free from judgement and with like-minded individuals. The fact that students choose to come and learn here is of secondary concern.” The Arch-Mage’s voice was resolute in this statement, and it surprised Yves. Any college he could think of worth its reputation had programs dedicated to aspiring mages. Admittedly, he’d daydreamed of attending one when he was younger, before his duties as a Montclair took over.

“Is that the college’s official stance on the matter?” He didn’t recognize this new, masculine voice, but it sounded grizzled. “I wasn’t aware we had taken a stance.”

“All matters for another time,” Mirabelle concluded, sounding frazzled, “though it is a crucial topic. I hate to put off the discussion, but right now, we need to focus on keeping these current students safe. The trend is troubling, that’s the point I’m trying to make. I for one am dreading having to write a letter to Rundil and Yissra’s parents explaining the situation.”

“Not to rag on Phinis’s group, but were any of my students involved in these issues? Perhaps it is a more specific matter than it appears…” Yves nearly snorted. That was about the most passive-aggressive he had ever heard Tolfdir say, and he was not wrong.

“The student nearly killed by the bandit during the rescue was Brelyna, I believe,” Drevan offered. “It may not be yours students at the center YET, but odds are good they will be dragged in. Besides, your students haven’t had much time to get up to mischief at this point. Don’t think they will be innocent forever.”

“Brelyna? By the Nine…” He seemed genuinely shaken by this thought. Perhaps he had the same perception of an even-keeled demeanor that Yves had of her. Such a thing happening to J’zargo or Onmund wouldn’t have surprised anyone.

“Everyone looks down on the school of Restoration, but look how many times I was called upon in one day!” The piercing voice of the Restoration professor seemed oddly smug. “Perhaps they will learn how important those skills are. I mean, Brelyna wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for that Yves’s quick restoration spell.”

“Hmm, Yves. That part does not surprise.” There was a sigh. “I’m glad he was there.” His relief made a knot form in his stomach. Tolfdir had no idea how close he had been to failing the spell, failing Brelyna. He wasn’t the golden boy he was trying to portray himself as in the end. “Having things play out this way with the other apprentice group was not the way I intended for them to learn their lesson about caution, though I hope they have learned their lesson. Collette is right about that.”

“Are we done here? I don’t feel this requires my attention. Mirabelle, you do whatever you see fit. You are, after all, the one in charge of the students. I’m going to go start looking into that orb we found at Saarthal.” A scraping of a chair, and Savos Aren was gone. What exactly did being the Arch-Mage even mean? What matters DID require his attention? So far, all Yves could figure was that he was a top mage and got a nice room as a result. He had yet to see any kind of leadership come from the man.

“He’s not wrong,” the mystery older man admitted, rising as well. “This is between Mirabelle, Tolfdir, and Phinis. We will, of course, keep our eyes and ears open around the college and report anything concerning that comes to our attention.” He was met with a chorus of agreements, and then a mass shuffling as more professors dispersed.

Once the crowd had dispersed, there was a sharp hiss. “Just remember, Tolfdir, if you don’t like how I teach, you can always take over my apprentices. I wouldn’t bemoan more time to work on my personal experiments.”

It wasn’t Tolfdir, but Mirabelle that responded. “No, Phinis, I believe I will move your apprentices to Faralda’s care until you have undergone mandatory educator training. You will have the same amount of time for your experiments as you have always had…”

“You can’t-“

“Your job description is professor, Phinis. You get paid accordingly. If you just want to experiment and ignore the students in your care, you will become one of the academics that live here and we will hire someone else for the position. Do I make myself clear?”

There was a grumble, and what Yves could only imagine was an agreement of some kind under his breath before footsteps descended to the lower level.

That left Tolfdir and Mirabelle. “Mirabelle, I was going to pull my students individually to have a talk with each of them even before I heard about this. I had seen some distressing behavior in their group dynamic. I will be certain to include some, shall we say, “reflection” on today’s events in those conferences.”

“Thank you, Tolfdir.” She gave a heavy sigh. “I’m glad I can count on you, at least.”

“You have enough on your plate, my dear. I will see that my apprentices do not become one more thing.”

More footsteps, then silence. The meeting was adjourned.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Yves eased his way down the stairs of the Hall of Attainment. He almost made it to his room before Onmund’s abrasive voice assailed him. “Where have you been? You were with Brelyna on her mission today, don’t you even care that she’s finally woken up?”

Slowly he turned to assess the situation. Onmund was glaring again, no surprise, and J’zargo was also looking at him through narrow eyes. Both stood beside Brelyna’s bed. The Dunmer was, in fact, sitting up in bed, and unlike the other two, her gaze remained soft. “Guys, could you NOT? We both have been through a lot today, and…” She trailed off, no doubt unsure how to describe the weird new dynamic in their relationship. 

For his part, he found it nearly impossible to look directly at her. She’d seen him break, and there was no unseeing something like that. He unconsciously scratched the back of his neck and turned away. “I was just spying on the faculty meeting, if you must know.”

J’zargo’s eyebrows shot up. “I had no idea the teacher’s pet was capable of something so…naughty.” Onmund snickered at his remark, leaving Yves to roll his eyes.

Ilas-Tei peered around the corner of his room. “Just how much trouble are we in?” If Yves was reading his Argonian features correctly, the apprentice was rather worried-looking.

“I could tell you, but then you’d have to act surprised tomorrow. I doubt you have it in you. Besides, I’m not sure it’s worth the risk, quite frankly. You’d just as soon rat me out for fun.”

“Really? You’re going to tell us you spied and then not tell us what they said? That’s a new low, even for you,” Onmund grumbled as he folded his arms.

“Don’t tell them, Yves. Their acting skills are horrible and you'll just get in trouble.”

“Brelyna, are you defending him?” The Nord couldn’t believe his ears, staring incredulously at his bed-ridden friend.

“Just…give him a break, alright? For my sake?”

This was new. People being annoyed with him, he was used to and could deal with. People being nice? This was just uncomfortable. Without a word, he marched off to bed. To the other apprentice’s credit, they all did as Brelyna requested. He could be thankful for that much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was a unique challenge, writing a meeting the protagonist is not actually a part of...


	11. Candlelight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tolfdir finally catches up with Yves, reminding him of his old master. He is tasked with a new mission, one that is meant to teach him a lesson he has yet to learn.

Something was wrong. Instead of standing under the rotunda ready to lead his pupil in cleansing breaths before their lesson, a habit they had developed over the course of many years, Master Comtois was sitting on a bench under a leafy oak tree. When he saw his student approaching, he patted the bench beside him without a word. He told himself it was silly to worry, but all the same his stomach dropped as he moved silently to obey.

“Today marks the beginning of a new routine for you, Yves,” Master Comtois began. He looked straight ahead as he spoke, not that Yves minded. That was just how the old man was, how he’d always been. There was a distance, as he assumed there was between all teachers and students.

He felt a flicker of hope. “You mean we get to start working on experimental magic like the kind they study at the university?”

That hope was quickly dashed as Comtois gave a deep chuckle. “I’m flattered you think so highly of my abilities, Yves. In truth, I’ve run out of things I can teach you.”

“Oh.” He paused. “So you’re saying I’ll get a new teacher?”

Silence fell like a weight, and it told him everything. Since overhearing Master Comtois’s conversation with his father three years ago, he understood that it was only a matter of time before the lessons would end. Some days he was so into what he was learning that he forgot, but more often than not it was a nagging presence at the back of his mind. Comtois, of course, had no idea that he knew, and after grappling for the right words, he admitted the truth. “Your magic lessons will end and you will start learning from your father how to manage the affairs of the estate.”

There was so much he wanted to say to that, thoughts and feelings he’d struggled to deal with since he’d found out about this plan all those years ago. It was unfair. He didn’t want this. Why couldn’t he do both things? Surely Laurent wouldn’t be such a bad candidate for managing the family… None of those petty feelings were worthy of a Montclair, however, so he held his tongue. His silence was, as it always had been, his best defense.

Finally, Master Comtois looked at him. He must have noticed a grimace that Yves had been unable to control, because he frowned. “I’m sorry, Yves. I know this will be a difficult transition for you. I tried to convince your father to let you study elsewhere, but he is dead set on keeping you here. It isn’t my place to argue.”

“I understand, Master. It is my duty to the family.” He said the words with perfect fluency, well-oiled from rehearsal, yet they came out sounding hollow. 

“Yves, look at me.”

It was hard to do so. Master Comtois was his superior, so eye-contact was rare. He only risked looks when Master Comtois was otherwise occupied. When he found the strength to obey, he realized with a start just how many wrinkles the old man had gained. He never looked closely enough to see the progression of age.

“I was ready to retire from teaching ten years ago. I was old enough, I had enough saved to live the rest of my days comfortably. Something intrigued me enough to put that plan on hold, however. A nobleman came to me, asking for my help, hoping I would believe that his five-year-old son had somehow summoned a familiar from Oblivion all on his own!” Yves couldn’t help but give a small smile. He did enjoy that story. “A child with that kind of talent? Such a prodigy? Why, I had to see for myself. And every day since then, I’ve wanted to be a part of that child’s training, to see how far he could go. I know the answer now, Yves: you’ll go further than me.”

“But Master, how can I progress if I am not allowed to study with others?” If he was forced to spend his days overseeing business and pouring over ledgers. It was impossible to hide the despair that was welling up in his chest as the full realization dawned on him. The one thing he loved most would no longer be at the forefront of his life.

To his shock, he saw a wave of sadness in his teacher’s eyes that mirrored his own feelings. Comtois reached out his bony, gaunt hand and placed it on his head. “Do you remember the first spell I taught you?”

“Candlelight,” he replied instantly. He could recall the exact sequence of lessons he’d been taught, in addition to the spells he’d developed on his own. His brain had always been good at managing lists.

“Do you remember how it felt to learn your first spell officially?”

At that, Yves furrowed his brow. Specific memories were not his strong suit. “I know I was excited to be able to stay up late reading because of the Candlelight…”

There was another chuckle. “Entirely predictable. Well, I’ll tell you what I remember: a young boy whose face was lit up with wonder. A world of possibilities opening up. We were just beginning, but you couldn’t wait to see what we would do next. Remember this, my boy: you will not keep advancing unless you keep that sense of wonder. I know it won’t be easy with the things expected of you, but you don’t need me guiding you to continue growing as long as you keep that in mind. No one can take that away from you, Yves; only you can let it die.”

Years came and went since that final lesson. Yves hoped that Comtois would at least visit from time to time, but it was not to be. Perhaps his father and his teacher had decided that his presence would only make things more difficult. He tried his best to keep the spark of joy alive, truly he did, but the more duties thrown onto him, the more buried that spark became. Four years after Master Comtois left, Yves heard that the old man passed away. Not long after that, he received news that he was engaged to another nobleman’s daughter. The childhood he’d enjoyed was long gone, and so was the wonder.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Yves had been at it for hours, rising early to avoid the unwanted attention of his peers and heading to the Hall of Elements to practice Candlelight. It was like banging his head against a stone wall. The worst part was that he knew how easy it had been when he was a boy, not even six, to learn the spell for the first time. What a failure he was to Master Comtois, flailing around like this. He wasn’t going to surpass him, he’d never even match his level now. Was he somewhere in Aethereus watching his prized pupil with dismay?

“So J’zargo was right after all.”

Yves clenched his hands into fists and lowered them to his sides, as if he could hide the evidence of his failures. Served him right to be snuck up on, considering he’d done sneaking of his own the night before, but the sight of Master Tolfdir still had his pulse hammering in surprise. The words also had him bowing his head in shame. “I know this spell. It’s just not obeying me.”

“Hmmm…” Tolfdir approached, scratching his bearded chin thoughtfully. “Tell me if I am wrong, Yves, but so far, I get the impression that you know a great many things, but the connection is causing you problems. In fact, and I know this sounds a bit farfetched, I’d say you were actually able to cast many spells at one point that no longer function. Your motions as extremely effortless and your words perfectly fluent.”

He felt his mouth go dry. Was it that obvious? Tolfdir must have picked up on his dismay, because he quickly added “We don’t pry into the personal business of our students here at the College. If you do not wish to discuss it, I will not push the issue. However, as your teacher, I can’t help you as effectively if I do not know these things, you understand?”

His thoughts swirled in his head. Should he tell Tolfdir about the poison? Would that lead to other questions he didn’t want to answer? Could he trust the wizard? Before he could decide how he felt, Tolfdir continued. “So Yves, tell me what you are thinking when you try to cast Candlelight.”

Yves breathed a sigh of relief. That one was easy. “I know exactly the problem. I can’t stop thinking about J’zargo’s taunting when I try to cast. Then I can’t stop thinking about how I should know such a basic alteration spell. It’s no wonder I can’t make it work; these thoughts are counterproductive.”

“And what did you think about the first time you cast the spell?”

He squinted, ignoring the fact that Tolfdir was operating on his supposition about him. “I was only five. I don’t believe I was thinking very much at all.”

“Five? An early bloomer… That explains even more of what I’ve observed about you. I suppose you had a formal teacher then?”

“Yes.” That didn’t begin to scratch the surface, but he was determined to hold his information close to his chest. Surely giving Tolfdir that single fact wouldn’t come back to bite him.

“Was he a good teacher, or did you come here because he was ineffectual?”

So many questions! To be fair, Yves never did reveal very much, and direct questioning was about the only way to pry facts from him. A teacher should know the basics about their student to be able to do their job, and even after only two days spent together, he found himself willing to trust Tolfdir more than anyone else in the college, granted that wasn’t a difficult competition. “He was a great teacher, and he taught me everything he knew. I’m only sorry I disgrace him now.…” Yves shook his head. “Of course, you have no reason to believe that, not with the way I currently cast.”

Tolfdir suddenly turned and made for a bench along the outer edge of the hall. “Come sit, Yves.” He took a seat, and patted at the spot next to him. A pang of nostalgia hit Yves as suddenly, he was seeing Master Comtois all over again. He swallowed thickly and joined the professor on the bench.

“Now, I accept that you do not wish to divulge much information. After all, we have known each other for two days, and I do not expect that you would trust me with just anything. However, going forward, I am operating on the following assumptions. If you do not wish me to do so, correct me. Number one.” He held up his index finger. “You have always been gifted in magic, and that gift had been cultivated from a young age. I can see it in your form, as well as your inherent caution with magic. This means that you are accustomed to being the best.” He held up a second finger. “Two, based on this, and based on some of your social tendencies, I assume you do come from noble lineage in High Rock. Had you been poor, you likely would not have received tutoring as a young child. That would also explain much of your discomfort with these new situations and your less-refined peers, besides your formal manner of address to your teachers.” After this statement, he waited, seeing if Yves would deny it. The man couldn’t lie though, so he just studied the tile of the floor instead. “Three, and perhaps most important if we are to make progress, something happened that inhibited your abilities to cast. Whether that something was psychological or physical, it matters not. The point is, you are not learning the same way as the other students, because you are relearning. This also makes you prone to extra frustration.”

Yves remained silent, fidgeting with his hands. This man was good, for such little time spent together. Whether his powers of observation would be a blessing or a curse in the end had yet to be seen, but he couldn’t help but feel grateful that he’d ended up with him as his professor. He could get the help he truly needed to regain his abilities from such an astute person.

“Very good then. That shapes the discussion I wanted to have with you. You recall, of course, that I was going to be speaking privately to each of my students after the incident at Saarthal.”

“Yes sir,” he mumbled.

“I do not need to give you the lecture about safety that the others will be getting. In fact, I heard from the other professors that you were instrumental in saving Borvir and Brelyna.”

“Master Tolfdir, that…that almost didn’t work. I was barely able to get a hold of that spell in time.”

Tolfdir looked at him appraisingly, his eyebrows raised. “So you are willing to acknowledge your deficits?”

“Only to you.” He folded his arms defensively. “You will help me grow, if you are the sort of person I believe you to be. The others… They will use it against me.”

“You honor me with your trust, but Yves, you are uncharacteristically naive if you think they can’t see your deficits plain as day despite your posturing. J’zargo caught your lack of Candlelight, after all. And didn’t I hear a comment about your lack of aim during that fight with Jyrek?” This earned nothing but a tight-lipped frown. “This is the heart of what we needed to talk about, you and I: how you interact with your peers. You are perfectly respectful to me and Mistress Ervine, but the tone you take with your classmates… It’s no wonder they get upset with you!”

“Respect is earned, and they are fools.”

“Well, I agree with the first part at least.” Tolfdir rubbed his temples in aggravation. “I suppose I should be flattered that I was able to earn your respect so quickly. However, you need to give them a chance to earn it instead of writing them off immediately after one set-back. What’s more, you need to consider that they did not have the same upbringing as you did. Most of our students have never had a tutor before arriving here, so they are raw and undisciplined. Many, like Onmund, dealt with rejection over their magical talents instead of being praised and celebrated. I know that was the case for me when I was a lad.”

Yves blinked. “With all due respect, sir, Nord culture is vexing that way, and I don’t understand it. Power is power, skill is skill, no matter the form. You sure showed them, though.”

“Indeed. But, you understand what I’m saying? You don’t see eye to eye with the others because you all come from such different experiences. You need to put yourself in their position and gain a greater sense of empathy.”

“I’ve been told I have no sense of imagination.” He could still hear Laurent’s voice passing judgement on him, and he winced.

Tolfdir’s eyes softened as he noticed the young man’s reaction. “Frankly, I’ve been at this job quite a long time now. Don’t think you would be the first young man from a noble family who struggles to connect with his peers. The ones that succeeded in the College were the ones that were able to adapt and grow. Besides, in your case, I suspect that this disconnect is contributing to your struggles with casting. Tell me, what made the Healing Hands spell finally work?”

The words were bitter on his tongue, and he turned away as he admitted it. “Brelyna reconsidered her opinion of me.”

“Judging by your tone, I think you know the implications of that. Now, obviously, this will be a two-way street, so to speak, but you need to make an effort to understand them, do I make myself clear?”

“Yes sir.” He didn’t like the sound of that at all, but he knew Tolfdir spoke the truth. That was always a bitter pill to swallow.

“Then your next lesson will be this: I spoke to Urag in the Arcanaeum in regards to our tomes on Saarthal. He tells me they were all stolen by a group of students that left the university to pursue forbidden magic. Particularly, a student by the name of Orthorn grabbed the books as a sort of peace offering to join their group. You need to travel to Fellglow Keep and get those books back so we might continue our research on the orb we discovered.”

Yves waited for the part where Tolfdir explained how this would help him, but it didn’t come. Finally, he asked “So, this is a lesson?”

“Yes,” the elder responded simply, leaning back against the stone wall. “I feel you will learn from this experience.”

“Very well…” he acquiesced, unconvinced. “But where in the world is Fellglow Keep?”

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Back in Whiterun where he began his journey not a week before, it turned out. Just his luck.

Yves had cleared the perimeter of the ruined fortress, thankful that these rogue wizards were not terribly accomplished. With Canis to play a distraction, his meager destruction spells were enough to defeat the mages that had shot on sight rather than parlay. Attacking him had been a terrible decision on their parts considering all he wanted was a few books... As he took in his surroundings, he contemplated again how surprising it was that he had been sent alone after everything that had happened, now even more so after doing battle just to enter the place, but Tolfdir had insisted that he would find an ally at the keep. While he didn’t say it, Yves had a sneaking suspicion that was part of his “lesson”.

He approached the main door to the keep, but it didn’t budge when he pushed. Of course it was locked! Why would this be easy? Because the long wagon-ride back to Whiterun and the welcoming party were not enough! Yves grimaced, realizing what he had to do, then set to work checking the dead bodies for a key. There was none. How in Oblivion was he supposed to get in now, summon a frost atronach to break down the door? At least they had some gold on them. He was going to need a bottle of wine and a nice hot meal when this was over.

Another entrance, there had to be another entrance. It took some searching, but he found it. To his dismay, the stairs lead DOWNWARDS though. Dungeons, no doubt. Soggy, water-logged dungeons, judging by the standing water nearby. If this job didn’t require skillful negotiation, he’d head right back to Winterhold and tell Ilas-Tei with his Argonian attributes to handle this. He was seen as a prissy noble by his teacher, and that was entirely true. Surely he couldn’t be expected to shed that quality at a mere suggestion!

Tolfdir would be disappointed in him though. Thinking that anyone he respected would be disappointed had always been his greatest motivator, and this was no exception. With a groan of dismay, he descended the stairs and carefully opened the door. Character building indeed.

The dungeon held not only water, but spiders and necromancers. As he carefully picked them off one by one and moved deeper into the heart of the keep, he began to notice dead bodies of all races draped across various tables. It was enough to make him queasy. Experimentation on sentient beings was forbidden in all universities despite whatever advances could come from them. Clearly the college knew they were doing these illegal experiments, which was what got this group banished, but why leave them to their own devices when they knew exactly where they’d fled? He recalled the meeting he’d eavesdropped on, and determined that if half of them couldn’t even be bothered to watch their own students, they certainly wouldn’t worry about ex-students, even if their acts ruined the college’s reputation. If he were in charge, this would never happen!

The vampires surprised him. Once he’d finished off the mages in the room full of cages, voices made him realize they had been keeping living test subjects. Their eyes gave them away for what they were. Yves made sure to give them a quick death by fire, not sparing a single word of apology as he slaughtered the helpless creatures. This was a mercy.

It should have been silent as nothing but smoldering ashes remained, yet from deeper within, steeped in darkness, a single, pitiful voice continued to cry out. “Is someone there? Please, help!” But it was dark. Too dark. Who knew the dangers within? What he really needed before jumping in blindly was a torch, or maybe…

“Please! I’m scared of what they’ll do to me! You have to get me out!”

Unlike all the other times when an old spell reignited, Yves’s spark of inspiration didn’t come from the same place as it had in his childhood. There was no joy or wonder as the ball of light finally manifested in his hands. He had none, not any more. What he did have was concern. Someone alone in the dark, someone afraid, someone trapped. Someone like him in more ways than he’d care to admit. The Candlelight flared up not only for the mystery voice, but for himself. He had the power, as Master Comtois said, and only he was responsible should it die. This was no parlor trick as it had been once, but a matter of necessity for his survival, and a beacon of hope where things seemed hopeless. That was enough.

“Who are you?” he demanded as he stepped forward, illuminating the path before him. There was another circle of cages, and inside one of them, a battered-looking Altmer that appeared as pathetic as he had sounded. He gripped the bars of his cell in a panic, the light of the Candlelight reflecting off of wide eyes. 

“I’m Orthorn! I’m from the College! Did they send you to rescue me?”

Tolfdir’s cryptic words regarding this mission became crystal clear. Somewhere, he was having a good laugh about this “lesson”, no doubt.


	12. Calm

He missed training with Master Comtois. He missed working on spells. He hated having to meet all these new people at his father’s side, the introductions before business meetings terribly uncomfortable. At least once the formalities were out of the way, he was left to quietly observe proceedings without having to speak to anyone again for the remainder of the visit. It was like having cast the invisibility spell without actually needing to, which was unfortunate, because he wanted the practice.

Really, there were few opportunities to practice now that he was shadowing his father. One couldn’t exactly mutter spells under their breath and keep the effects unnoticed by those around him even as his mind wandered during talks of numbers and shipments. Illusion spells in particular were impossible, as they required another person to be the spell’s target. Yves was not about to pull a servant aside and ask for such a thing…

In the end, it made him wonder what all that training was for. Was it so he could become a source of bragging rights for his father? That he could show off his tricks for the friends he brought over? To add prestige to the already prestigious Montclair name?

Perhaps seeking a purpose to his magic training was part of his decision to cast the Calm spell that night, even though the obvious cause was his utter distaste for discord among his family. Looking back, he couldn’t even remember what Laurent had been arguing with his father about. It was never anything terribly important, but it seemed he always found an excuse to stir up something. Yves swore it was Laurent’s misguided attempt to earn attention, no matter how negative. He remembered sitting in misery, picking at his food as his appetite diminished, and the way his mother just closed her eyes and continued eating in silence. For whatever reason, he could endure it no longer. He turned and, hiding his hand motions under the table, cast the Calm spell on Laurent just to get him to stop.

That was a mistake. Though Laurent fell quiet and returned to his meal with a shrug, his father’s wrath still hung heavy in the air. He could feel his eyes rest squarely on him. “Yves…did you just cast a calm spell on your brother?” His tone was dangerous, even if it grew quieter. Stupid! Of course a wizard like his father could sense magic being cast! Of course he would recognize the signs, obvious as they were. No way Laurent would just drop an argument naturally… 

Yves swallowed hard and hung his head. “Yes, father.” There were no other words for his defense. He knew he’d disobeyed.

“You should know by now that it is forbidden to cast Illusion spells on your allies, your family most of all! Why would you dare break this rule?”

“Laurent would not stop arguing! I didn’t know how else to get him to calm down…”

“That is what words are for!”

“Yours didn’t seem to do any good, so I thought…” Yves froze in horror, realizing his misstep. “I mean, I…”

But it was too late. His father jumped to his feet, and before the teen could process what was happening, his father struck him across the face. Yves was too shocked at first to process the painful sting, but as those torturous seconds of silence dragged on, he began to feel the burning where his father’s hand made contact. “I expect better from you! Never again, do you hear me?”

“I’m sorry, father…”

“And do not interfere between your brother and I. It is none of your concern.”

“But I can’t stand it when you…”

Yves was interrupted by another blow to the face, this one harder than the last. He couldn’t help but yelp in surprise and pain. “Not. Your. Place! I am in charge, not you!”

“Of course you are, Father. I just don’t understand why we learn this spell if we can’t use it to help?”

A final blow, no weaker than the others. Why couldn’t he just keep his mouth shut? It was all the questions he’d bottled up in the last few months struggling to escape at the worst time possible. “No more. What don’t you understand? Now, go to your room and contemplate this lesson! This disrespect will not be repeated, do I make myself clear?”

Helplessly, Yves dared to look around the table. His mother had set her fork down and was covering her face. Silent. She would not defend him; she never did get involved in these situations. And Laurent, who he had been trying to help? He was hiding a smug grin behind his glass of water, doing his best not to snicker as his older brother got reamed out instead of him for once.

He wasted no time fleeing the dining room, fighting back tears. None of it was fair, not training him in magic and then taking it away, not brushing off his concerns when he was meant to be the next leader of House Montclair, not the way his mother remained silent and his brother took joy in his misfortune. 

After shutting and locking the door to his quarters, Yves flared up a healing spell, pressing his glowing hand to his still smarting cheek. The tears weren’t about the physical pain those blows had caused, but if he didn’t see to the rapidly forming bruises, people would know he’d been chastised in the morning when he was dragged around once again for show.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“What- what do you mean?” Orthorn shifted nervously. “I know you’re not with them, I heard you fighting! You must be here to rescue me!”

Yves couldn’t help the undignified, throaty sound of exasperation that passed his lips. “I came here for books, specifically, the books that YOU stole!”

Orthorn deflated somewhat at that remark. “Well, as you can see, stealing them didn’t do me a lot of good. I am currently slated to be their next test subject, for what specific purpose they haven’t even seen fit to tell me.”

“Some friends, huh?” 

The Altmer wilted, studying the floor. “Right. I should have known a few books wouldn’t be enough, I just…I wanted it to be true.”

Yves could relate to the loner aspect of this elf, but not his failed quest for friendship. Yves had always accepted that he would have no true friends and went on with his life. This Orthorn, on the other hand, was willing to shame himself just for a chance at companionship. A gamble he’d lost. “You can only ever rely on yourself. People will always let you down.” He turned to grab the set of keys from the peg on the wall. “I suppose I may as well let you out, on one condition.”

“Name it!”

“You need to help me find those books that you stole.”

Yves paused with the key in the keyhole, refusing to turn it until he got confirmation. Orthorn just squirmed. “It’s at the top of the tower, with the Caller.”

“The Caller? What in Oblivion is that, some kind monster?”

“You could say that. She’s the leader of this cell of outcast mages.”

“So the Caller is a person who just likes using overly dramatic names?”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful.” At last he twisted the key in the lock, resulting in a click as the bolt fell away. The door swung open with an obnoxious creak. “Lead me to her, then.”

Orthorn swallowed hard, but said nothing as he nodded in agreement. From one jailer to another, and he knew it.

Yves quickly regretted forcing the lackluster mage to accompany him. He got in the way more than he helped, and his spells were pitiful. One look at the other, more dominant mages of his former “friend group” and he appeared ready to turn tail. The only thing he had going for him was his knowledge of the layout of the tower. It didn’t take long before the pair were ascending the final set of stairs leading to their fated confrontation.

“Anything I should know about her?” Yves hissed, standing before the door to the uppermost chamber.

“She may try to make a deal with you if she doesn’t like her odds. Don’t do it! She needs to be killed, believe me! The things she has done to her test subjects…” Orthorn shivered. “She really is a monster. I’m sorry I ever followed someone like that.”

“Noted. Let’s get this over with then.”

Opting for assertiveness over subtlety this time, Yves flung open the doors. Why pretend? She had to have noticed his rampage, tearing up her keep. “I am here for the tomes on Saarthal that were stolen from the college. Hand them over or I will kill you as well.”

Standing in the middle of the revealed ritual chamber was a woman in long black robes with her hood drawn, but Yves could make out that she too was an Altmer. He could also make out her sneer, though her voice alone gave as much away. “So you’re the one who barged into my home and laid waste to my projects. Do you honestly expect a negotiation?”

“That depends on how badly you want to live, I suppose.” Yves rubbed his chin while feigning nonchalance. He was under no delusion that this Caller was of the same caliber as the others. To be the leader of such a faction, one had to be the strongest. Odds were good that she was even stronger than he was, given his current condition. Breton politics would serve him far better in this situation than open warfare.

Orthorn had no such restraint. “Hey, we discussed this, remember? Don’t!”

Her dark eyes fell on the apprentice. “Orthorn, I see you’ve been liberated from your cell. Perhaps this does indeed give the Breton and I something to deliberate about. You see, at this point, test subjects would serve me far better than those books you stole from the College library.” She returned her gaze to Yves. “Leave him behind with me so I have someone to experiment on, and I’ll let you collect your books and be on your way. Quite a generous offer after what you’ve done to my home.”

“As if he would sell me out for some books!” Orthorn countered, folding his arms defensively, but all the same he ducked behind the much smaller man. “Why in the world would you think-“

“Deal.”

The elf in question froze, while the conjurer raised her eyebrows in surprise, but Yves continued, unperturbed. "My only objective was to retrieve the books. Had your insubordinates been open to dialogue, all of that bloodshed could have been avoided. I derive no joy from fighting, and will certainly take you up on your offer now that it has been extended. Besides, it’s his own fault for getting into this mess anyhow.” Then, he took a large step to the side, exposing Orthorn to The Caller. “He’s all yours.”

The poor Altmer sputtered in dismay. “No, please, you can’t!”

He never looked back. A flick of the wrist, and with a murmured “Tranquilio”, the spell was cast. Orthorn fell still. His protests died in his throat.  
The Caller cackled in delight at this unexpected display. “How deliciously callous! Perhaps you would consider joining me in my studies here… You seem to have the proper temperament.”

Yves shook his head. “I have a job to do, and I aim to do it. Now, would you kindly point me in the direction of the books?”

“Pity. Well, your books are on the pedestals across the room. Take them and be gone.”

It all came down to this moment as Yves began taking measured steps across the chamber. Would she stab him in the back, unwilling to let go of vengeance or the books? Or would he be able to…

Four steps, four thundering heartbeats of her moving to claim her prize, and then he whipped around with a firebolt conjured. This was not honorable. Honor belonged to the wizard’s duels for which he’d been trained, where opponents were respectable. A necromancer who tortured her subjects? No, she deserved treachery, and there had been more than enough evidence lying around the keep to condemn her. By the time The Caller knew what hit her, Yves was firing up a second blast. Her screams of pain fell on deaf ears, though the ensorcelled Orthorn looked horrified to see it unfold. She fought back, albeit weakly, but by then it was too late; Yves had the upper hand and he used it to crush her completely.

“You monster! How could you…you…ummm…” Orthorn’s expression of dismay quickly morphed to one of confusion. “Wait a minute…”

“Grab the books. You’re carrying them back to the College, seeing as you took them in the first place,” Yves dismissed brusquely, gesturing to the pedestals.

“Hold on!” Orthorn rubbed his head as if he could brush away the fog. “Am I remembering this right? Did you…offer me up to The Caller?!”

“Yes. What of it? Clearly it was a deal I had no intention of keeping.”

That wasn’t a good enough answer. “Either you originally meant it the moment you said ‘deal’, or you lie far too easily!”

“Lying is part of politics. I’m quite proficient in that department.”

“And you cast a Calm spell on me! Your own ally! Didn’t anyone tell you that was bad?”

Without even realizing it, Yves’s hand found his cheek, soothing a wound that had been outwardly healed years ago. “It has its uses. You are far too excitable. The situation called for a steady hand. Besides, your spellcasting is subpar and you would have only gotten in my way had we simply launched into a fight immediately.”

“Ugh!” Orthorn ran his fingers through his long blonde hair in aggravation. “I’d ask you if you ever actually entertained the idea of trading me in, but as you said, you are an expert liar. How do your friends deal with you?”

“They don’t, because I don’t have any. Now, if you are quite finished, grab the books so we can get out of this rat’s nest.” He waved dismissively. “We’ll have to spend the night in Whiterun before taking a carriage to Winterhold, but if you loot her corpse, you might find enough gold to pay for your own room at the inn.”

“Winterhold? But, uh, I don’t think that…well, it seems like going back would be…I mean….”

His eyes narrowed. “Oh no. You are going back to the College and owning up for your crime. You will personally be returning those books even if I have to keep you in a constant state of tranquilization to make you.”

“You could do that?”

It was a fair point. Yves had taken a huge gamble calling on that spell, one he’d not practiced since his poisoning. Who knew why it worked so much more easily than some of the others, though he wondered if it had something to do with a lack of pressure. The whole idea behind using it was to flex before The Caller, hoping she would feel compelled to honor the deal by demonstrating his own prowess. He wasn’t particularly certain he could replicate the stunt when thinking about it. “How about we not put that to the test, hmm?”

“They’ll kill me!”

“So will I if you don’t get moving!” His glare must have been as fearsome as he imagined it to be, because Orthorn meekly began to gather the tomes in question. He could tell already that the ride back to the College was going to be even longer this time around.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

He wasted no time marching the Altmer across the bridge, and then the courtyard, not even sparing a greeting to Drevyn Neloren, the new gatekeeper now that Faralda was placed in charge of Ilas-Tei’s crew. Sure, they’d gotten raised eyebrows, but the Dunmer said nothing.

Urog had enough to say for the both of them, and more. He had to admit, he felt for the dimwit as he was reamed out over the theft of the books, squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his hands into fists as he withstood the verbal bombardment. He noted the flush of shame all the way to the points of his ears. A few pathetic apologies were all he could manage in between. Finally, the librarian determined to let him go with a warning because the books had been returned unharmed. To Yves, the old Orc simply said he’d report his good work to Tolfdir.

The pair descended the stairs back to the lecture hall, with Orthorn tailing him like a shadow, much to Yves’s annoyance. “So…now what?”

“I imagine you’ll go to bed,” he retorted gruffly. “I certainly plan to.”

“But do I still have a bed here since I ran off?”

“This will sound bad, but I’m pretty sure after this week’s events, there is a vacancy for you.”

“Oh. Did someone get themselves killed doing an experiment again?”

“Sweet Arkay, why is that normal for you people?!”

He pushed open the door to the courtyard, hoping to finally get some space. Orthorn would not be deterred. “I take that as a ‘yes’. Well, it will be weird, because all of my, ah, ‘colleagues’ that were in my section left with me, and now, well, I’m pretty sure you killed them all…”

“Maybe they’ll just absorb you into the group that lost two members. You aren’t exactly performing magic above a novice level anyhow.”

“You know, you’re a bit of a jerk.”

Yves pinched the bridge of his nose, wishing there was a spell that would make annoying individuals disappear. “I’m well aware. Remember what I told you? People will always let you down. I’m people. Get used to it.”

“You didn’t let me down with The Caller though.”

As Yves reached for the handle of the door to the dorms, he froze. “Pardon?”

“I know I was all mad at the time because you cast that spell on me and lied, but… She didn’t attack you, you attacked her. You could have taken the deal, but you chose not to. So yeah, you didn’t let me down, even if you are a bit of a jerk.”

“You got lucky this time. Don’t count on it happening again.” He threw open the door, pleading to all the Divines that he would be able to escape this oaf. When he saw his classmates peering around the corners of their rooms curiously at his unintentionally dramatic entrance, an idea formed. Perhaps he could get the others to adopt this lost puppy.

“Everyone, this is Orthorn.” He gestured to the self-conscious elf behind him. “Orthorn, this is everyone. They are mostly fools, but at least they aren’t sadistic necromancers. You could do worse.”

“Umm, hi?” Orthron waved shyly. When he noticed the glares Yves earned from his introduction, he added “I’ve learned not to pay him any mind. He means well, actually.”

“I’ll leave you to the meet and greet. I’m going to bed.”

“You won’t stay and talk with us?”

“I don’t need friends. You, on the other hand… You need friends. The right kind of friends. They will do. Now, goodnight.”

It would have been better if there had been a door to shut. He had to pretend he couldn’t hear their conversations as he prepared for bed.

“Nice to meet you, Orthorn. I’m Onmund. I’m sorry Yves was the first one you had to meet.”

“This one is J’zargo. J’zargo assures you, we are considerably more polite than that muskarse.”

“Name’s Ilas-Tei. Weren’t you in the class above ours? I’m sure you could join our group with Mistress Faralda.”

“I’m Borvir. You must be tough, seeing as you survived a trek with Yves. I’ve had firsthand experience with that, and it was not fun.”

“Are you both all right? You seem so nervous, and Yves is more rattled than normal.” Brelyna’s soft voice, and more specifically her words made him flinch, where all the others had bounced off harmlessly.

“It was a trying experience at the keep, I must admit…”

“Well, please let me know if I can do anything to help either of you, because I know Yves will just pretend he’s fine.” 

“Brelyna, you need to worry about your own healing instead of somebody who could care less!” Onmund scolded. “We can all help you out, Orthorn. We’ve got to stick together, no matter what he told you.”

“Yes, we ALL must stick together,” she reiterated pointedly.

“So, tell us what happened! You don’t seem a bad sort despite the rumors…”

Yves flopped on his bed and buried his head beneath the pillow. He didn’t want to know what that optimistic idiot had to say.


End file.
